The organ plays in a thousand arching churches
a thousand sons against their mothers' knees
leaning;
sun gliding the paths wet with glittering snares;
the unfaithful rise from their beds to a rainy
morning.
Death walks the long paths. Under the leaves he is
hiding
from the children, only drawing an explicit trace
down their spines, and drying the veins in the
garden
with sunlight that buries the dew in chords of
silence.
Let us run from this richness, death and children
and rains
breeding, decaying: green pollen and pale children.
Somewhere above the organ lone figures are shearing
the branches of trees with neat and darkening
direction.