by Cliff Saunders
Can’t find a loop of grace in the Holy City.
The children are silent, and blue with cold.
The revolution is devouring their road,
endless as a month of contradiction.
All the world’s a snare and a delusion.
All the world’s an erotic turn for the worse.
The emperor of betrayal finds himself
lost in the twilight. Doesn’t take much
to topple a man’s generosity.
Why grovel for gravel in a cellar?
Why not let go of the rope?
There is always the mystery,
the loneliness conferred with holy orders.
Cliff Saunders has an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Arizona. His poems have appeared recently in The Wayne Literary Review, Pedestal Magazine, Mojave Heart Review, Pinyon, San Pedro River Review, The Green Light, and RipRap Literary Journal. He lives in Myrtle Beach, where he serves as co-coordinator of The Litchfield Tea & Poetry Series.
Artist: Gabe Weis