Demarcation
Now we linger
at the door of the temple of God
with liquid-brown anguish in our eyes
for we gaze
arms down at the drawn bright blaze
of hinge
fine-crafted and silver
that shuts us in.
or shuts us out
Oh the sparkling, all-virtuous hinge
clasping with all its strength puritanical
the oak-heavy door
that stands at the portal of the temple of God,
holding out the wrought iron bolt
of eternal demarcation and damnation
that shuts us in.
or out
Better to be a lonely old cow
that at least has its life
safely in place
and got the mute
whole green world of grass for its pleasure,
than be some pent-up young tiger
shut up in queue on the ark of God.
