Massacre of the Innocent
        

       From beneath the vestment
       played the soft rustle 
       of iniquity;
       the chalice
       borne high
       on trembling fingertips;
       the altar boy
       hurrying past 
       cupped and outstretched hands.
       What is this light
       falling through silvered glass;
       what shadows yawn
       long, wide, deep,
       in its wake?
       Come.
       The cellar walls are damp
       and chill.
       Each descending step
       spans the breadth 
       of giants.
       Here
       the floor is silent,
       clay;
       as are we
       at the onset of shadow,
       at the end of light,
       at the end of day.

       
       
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