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Three Priests in April
April burned in the grass, a green fire In dusty snow, as three priests walked toward a bell Telling above the season's pyre of hearts, Above their flaming prayers, the difference In blue pulsing beyond their leaf-repeating eyes. There on the heeled path of the risen toad, As Plato's music arched the dial of the day, The priests surprised a cart of geraniums, Red as the spilled blood of our warted clay, Loud as the black-eyed hawker of desire. Two priests walked by in murmurs. The third was pale With memories of murder. Rusty nails Impaled him on his dead youth, a cross of lies Bleeding beneath the thunder of the bells. Two priests walked by in murmurs; the third tried.