Drowsing to a Bach oratorio on the radio set,
bloated by a brunch of loaf and rillettes,
we twine like thieves crucified,
to save crosses, on a single tree.
Having thrice denied each other,
we succumb to killer gravity,
our physiques more than slack
than aerobic Saviours directed by Scorcese.
The heat, not light, we generate in tons
makes tastebuds fill with vinegar sips
from sponges of Centurions.
Your sharpened thumbnail serves
as crown of thorns to my right ear.
Heathen jeer each shift of thigh
that joins our bodies, and cry:
"See how his bloody back is just like the sky!"