We pray to beads and mother
                while sons impale themselves
                on soldier swords or some other
                metallurgical blend. Isn't it odd
                we claim love like lust or Constantine
                crazed in battle? Open door
                and present icons if only poor

                or foreign enough for a glimpse of
                wooden beam - screaming out salvation
                until even you become disturbed,
                laid out in some suburban temple,
                house or stake; a claim, myth
                yarn or truth? But it never ends.
                Like a thief whose name you can't recall.