Merry Supper With The High Priests

in a brick brothel of behavioral calibrators

crisp with fateful, inert guano.
It's the wakeful papacy we've all been

aligning our baggage for,
staying astraddle the tabernacled,

aeronautic, beehive forest.
The high priests nest in the supine,

Philip Whalen position, their
daughters pallor a pinkish catheter

that forbears the glutamic starvation
the convalescent consider Homeric.