I’ve seen the thing
        belching in the garden like a sick toad
poised in the dark, breathless as a hound.
Three stub fingers in a crooked groove,
a commandment held firmly.
Her Word a scythe over the wheat fields,
still eyes smoking with lunar fog
The suffocating aeons of spinning stone pillars
Gravitas above a black aeon’s body
far away and ill lit. Faith is in eyes
punctured and still. Her eyes grind dust,
the stars from circus balls bleed out,
the stars from children’s eyes
 fly into her wooden palm.
In her death rattle’s
misty salvo, black beaded rattling chains,
choosing victims with pitiless sainthood.
from her perch in the window. 
Sterile as a deformed star in space,
breathing in the sleeping grooves
of her many locked rooms
Her third eye’s flood, ablaze
in flooding gnosis, a painted tooth hanging;
I’ve seen this thing scoping the plots,
and her razor fishnet stockings
bleeding her as a false penitent.
Blinking once a decade
in the sick honey of poisoned reverie;
            a scream shrill an angel’s skinned octave,
a scrape of medusa’s third lung.
The monks spin in mad recitations,
dervishes of her moonpsalms.
Faith is in eyes punctured and still,
she whispers, voice counted 
on starry vector beads. She reigns, still 
in this town of bone and brick.