European Figwort

And I will destroy every substance

that I have made, from the face of the earth.

European figwort, like God’s heart crushed
Under evil pressure, served as stop-gaps
Repairing earth’s irruptions while men dashed
Over the moral precipice. Perhaps
Pretending to body’s voice, the soul’s ghost
Entailed abstracted figs from buttocks’ flesh,
And so no physic tends but to herbal dust.
No ends to soothe our hearts, we ache with rash
Flooding such as Noah saw – and such was
Irrigating hell itself. With furrowed brow
God damned man’s scrofulous ass of a face
Worth weathered expressions of divine disgust…
Rage receded, though; a grinning rainbow
Transplanted its prism with a promise.