On holy days the turbulence is more severe.
The pharisees don’t pray for what they need,
but for what they fear. Meanwhile, a telepath

in a forest sets shockwaves on the doctrine’s
received spirits. The spires of the empire quake
in the wake of his exile. How the polished windows

and minarets fracture! This is how he relieves
his affliction — the dreams of others loop
right through his skin. Their serpentine blades skate

across his heart, carve out chunks on the showy jumps.
Sinuous wounds gather and pool until the roiling
dreams burst through and the moon breaks into hail.

Towers topple in the storm. Then time’s plication
and a new version arrives. In his hands, tender
hosannas ward off the imperfection of these days.