And what shall He say?As you limp nigh into the nacred gates
Your naked blackness, an Ace from the Hole
Still holding the shovel spade of the Hell you dug to spite the Fates
And having reached the bottom only to discover
That Innana, Euridice, Persephone, Demeter and a host of other Mothers who already dug the holey Hell descending Well well before you, digging hole with hands and nails and shovels none
And now you plead to their common Son
Before gates of pearls with tales imagined on Terra whose fecundity you confuse for filth
The dirt just your time on terroire where you taste your own terror and still you plot your defense
Bringing arguments intense and angry of hard times held and cheap beauty spent on wicked soot of candle spent at both ends and mute
Pleading a point so moot
So beyond refute
That your very presence is prima facia proof of His innocence
And the hard smooth mahogany handle of your shovel crook cane spear cross bears the hard worn hand rubbed finish and fingerprints of only one…