The zealots came – as always –
draped in purity, to press their claims
~ which would erase our nuances,
reduce our subtleties to slates;
as if a blank could live
~ in which the glories of creation
would shrink to conceptual art,
like angelic voices ringing
locked in a crazy head
~ on roads too thin to travel far
as life was redefined, abjured
to strip it clear of heresies
like cockroaches.