Past the canvas somewhere
there, where you don’t look back
and where there aren’t enough chairs,
the box is full of broken crayons.

Beyond the brain past the shaking earth
when time and evil place their bets,
old, bearded scholars drink scotch
with God and the devil

while wonder dances in Rio.
A child will rise from the ash.
A reason will consume the broken alter
and no one will question

the lies that honesty breeds.
Someone there, anyone sober
will stand to expose the cowards
who promote war and who in turn

turn to serve the shepherds
and coddle the lambs.
Peace will answer a summons
to the witness stand

when history finally comes
to trial for the murder of death’s disguise.
The hung jury of religion will die in triage
but no one will light a candle at midnight.