by Gina O'Dowd Channing

Seven Seals

All we know and believe comes.
Ghost bigots bail a decapitate dilemma.
More than a smile stamped on Pegasus’ flank,
more than your snakefire halo – head sketch in the correct postage –
I am queening Geminatrix: sherbet dab counted for luck;
one quick corpus in the dust.

Apiaried and honey-bee’d, we’d write but no one listens.
See? Heaven is shut: bank holidays, Sundays, wet Wednesday week.
Most days you just need hear straight, knee-shake,
to witness Plausible unravelled in guffaw.
Poor things are shareable, challengeable, sunshone…
and we are our own salvage. Very closed.