Rose Mary Boehm

  Where the quincunx moves with stealth

priests suffer the conundrum
of canonizing the climacterium.
They draggle their fulgurant beatitude
before an ombudsman who,
with pharisaic prissiness,  hides
hubris in a closet and takes
off from a fiducial point.
That’s the moment when fracas
leaves the diaspora.
Several quails rollick before
concatenating in the ramose trees
of the beer gardens where a good
brew induces excessive cacology.

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