March of the Cloves

The cloves bitter and resounding
with rooted symphonies of direct
bliss march their way
 up the spine,
nails crackling
earth in the burst-open
brain of Christ – a bloody mess,
as it time travels from one seat to the next,
taking
and eating
and rummaging as they go.
Jaysus was just one of the dominoes,
who
  forget
    his lines
      in the
        show.

M. Lucia