Smooth rabbits, polished
by the pink undersides of wolf cubs
tickle God's belly.
The exaggerated laughter of Buddha
proves nothing,
except the presence of skin,
scripted in tense temples,
relaxing into many faces
of the one.
Shame spills
from the intense navels
of perfect idols.
Layered on crucified thighs,
skin whoops
at the smell of pentacles,
moans in the turban's folds,
cries at saffron,
clutching bony necks
like the sorry claw
of the tiger
as it follows the ritual paths
of salt infested bones,
soaked in hungry blood
like the fur of satiated wolves.
Gold trophy winner
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