New Orleans: The Spark And Resuscitation Poem by Michael Burch

When every two-by-four becomes an ark;
when Ham's lost tribe floats face-up in the dark;
when Noah only knows where God has gone,
and the only work that's left is dancers' wan
titillation of the Spark,
desire's dead
fanned corpse must lift its head.

One flash of crotch, one pure thin flame of rye,
and a man will square his shoulders, catch her eye,
and think, There must be better days to die.

Nearby, a choir's singing on a hill
as waters ebb. It's singing, Peace, be still.
While harlots whirl, pale nuns will put to bed
deaf orphans, with the ringing words God's said
of better days, though all such lie ahead.
Soft kisses, child, they grant you in His stead!

Two kisses: one a sinner's, one a saint's.
They both will still, one moment, all complaints.
The Spark, the Breath of Life, without constraints.

Note: The first line was "borrowed" from a poem by T. S. Kerrigan, with his blessing.