in the shadow of suspicion
he is still all
composed of light
the aeons of his hair
are pinned up in a bun
of innocence
after the first question
his cheeks flush with blood
the blood is helped on
with instruments and interrogations
with an iron ferrule
a slow fire
the limits of his body
are defined
a blow on his back
fixes his spine
between clouds and mudpuddle
after a few nights
the job is finished
the leather throat of the angel
is full of gluey agreement
how beautiful is the moment
when he falls on his knees
incarnate into guilt
saturated with contents
his tongue hesitates
between knocked-out teeth
and confession
they hang him head downwards
from the hair of the angel
drops of wax run down
and shape on the floor
a simple prophecy
