He hangs in the window
with unshaven porcelain,
his fingernails flag his
cheekbones in dull grace.
Lapis lazuli traces limp
streams on wrists, the flesh
torn by holy iron.
His dark hair is curled in ringlets that
mock maroon goblets, filled by
sticky rouge salvation.
Grey, mud-smeared grass flecks the soles of his feet,
crossed in pained forgiveness.
A man kneels before him, a glint of
silver- no, gold chains around his chin,
suspended on the flesh that surmounts his
neck. His hand fondles his leathered
faith, blinded by crystal blood.
The ghost smiles at the
Waxed light burps.