They were loose limbs in cherry trees
curved and darting
into throats of stucco fur.
Their hair grew damp
of sweat in judgement –
the sleepiest acolyte had
diverted in dust, covering
his own pieta in sticky straw
that crispened under
divine and budding nails.
Lot turned to Orpheus and drank salt.
Miracle of the Slave Ganymede
he glanced to the coarsest fur
that finger-picked europa with bald berries
and chafed ferns up
her tintoretto spine. the water bead
didn’t help, she said. she still collected
pulsars and swarthy constellations
in a blue that wasn’t night. but she had
ships with lucretian strokes, and he was only
plump with angels. his feathers were crowns
of oiled hair and they were carved
in brown thorns. there was no traced divinity in
the origin of mosaic-dirtied streets, so what
stars, red drape-throned girl, can
he inventory from the same skull dusted
rugs that threaten to stamp them out?