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.