webbed feet across a field of stones,
a fall of water, a tin tub,
a tuba, a tumescence,
a time when larks fall from the sky,
cries of the dying gathered in
barrels full of marmalade she made
that summer of the bitter oranges.
Lamb of God who taketh away the
bins of the world, have mercy on these
bins of sins.
Bless us Brother Broccoli,
Bless us Sister Stone,
Bless us old men who live alone,
for we have walked ten thousand miles
through stars, giraffes, and pocket combs,
we're going home,
we're going home.