Soundzine

Cancerian Confessional

It is not in scripture I seek a faith,
penance regarding faults
imagined and crafted; not in pews

or cloistered boxes, gilt wood
shaded, save the illumination
of a preacher's patchwork light--

I make religion from ridicule, immerse it
in my ideals, my ignorance and bleed
what's left of virtues and values,

slick pen scratches
serving as memory.
The angel perishes, the saint

sinks to corruption:
preordained fragments
of a moth-eaten quilt.