Te Deum

Nobody orders hemlock

Thirst for the Absolute

Is quenched in flat beer,

Drained off in rivers

Of stained and stinking urinals.

But Monday, following the tavernacle service

Once more the assault.

Fire-hissing steeples rip,

Like Roman blades, the blue

And evanescent draperies,

Seeking the secret place

Through Ptolemaic passages of heaven.

Little boys, now dadies who play Santa Claus,

having found God out,

Assume the mantle that has fallen

From their fabled skies

And mouth false parables with averted eyes.

© Florence Geanne Goodman