Erica ANZALONE

THE END OF NARRATIVE

it is so hot it is a desert our shoes
no longer burn
our feet are naked in
the temple of our poverty
we kneel we are enflamed
apotheosis of hands the milk
of stars a divine gift we refuse
obstinate in our hunger for an ardent
language a piano a
golden wing a
piece of good bread please
the profanity of saints fervently
praying in an alarming
dawn of snow-
bitten cocks the absurd
flesh of our need for honest
food the prodigal desire the perverse
form of an egg the blue
immensity of sky.

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