Church
                       

After last night's storm the tulip
petals are strewn across the patio
where they mortally fluttered. Only the gods
could reconnect them to their green stems
but they choose not to perform such banal
magic. Life bores deep holes in us
in hopes the nature of what we are
might sink into us without the blasphemy
of the prayer for parlor tricks. Ask the gods
to know them before you beg for favors.
The pack rat removes the petals one by one.
Now they are in a secret place, not swept away.
The death of flowers is unintentional. Who knows
if either of us will have a memory of ourselves?
If you stay up in the mountains it's always cold
but if you come down to the world of men you suffocate
in the folds of the overripe ass of piety, the smell
of alms not flowers, the smiling beast of greed.

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Copyright © 2011 Jim Harrison All rights reserved
from Songs of Unreason
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission