Brethren by Hunter Boone

the Pope’s
white skin beneath the red velvet robe.
Contemplate the thin papery silhouette
of Italian hands touching himself –
sometimes lovingly smoothing fingertips
of the right hand
over his perfect belly.

God has called him while
he drifts toward sleep and
the kingdom of his dreams –
a sometimes white world of goodness
made salient from the footprints left
by tiny angels, the ones who have danced
across the filigree of his indefectible
batiste shirts
angels who have enjoyed trampolining
off the springy fat of his cheeks.

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