Poem 109: Roll Down Sunday

roll down sunday
the first and last day
of the ringing pain
now clear as light
with this soundly
splitting shock
of the absence of reality
that is nothing to me
but a roaring wind
that sounds and storms
the conscience
of every failing
destined to become
a forest of crucifictions
one fiction
as a wailing of trees
nailing a crowd of three
and two is company
but one is for sorrow
two for mirth
and there is no more
for birth
only what was right
and now what is left of you
Lamb of God
and the terror of being
both sides of you now
and seeing
no centre but doubt
the fallen angel seam
hard as rock
clear as night
and still rolling me down
toward another Sunday.