A corpse in the road to Judah.
A seated lion and a yawning ass.
The locusts chant one systole a minute
and I thirst. Too long, and trust won’t do;
I need the Holy Ghost.
As men mark time I shouldn’t mark, I’m told,
but martyred souls enjamb the very Throne
with metered stops. The dead do count.
The dead are authorized to count.