There was nothing more
unnerving than first learning
perfection could be killed
at Golgotha. The skull
now makes for a fertile urn:
handfuls of sift, a battery factory;
by thunder, by pogrom for skin-
beetles tireless over enclaved fingers
buried by sickness in Srebrenica.
Has the pigeon already surpassed
us with its splintered body
against the window? Was the truth
it saw in the glass not worth the stake?
Nick Scott Christian’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly and Off the Coast. He lives in St. Louis and currently studies at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.