Done with Herod and the glittering robe,
the zinfandel in Pilate’s bowl,
the scarlet thorned together at his breast,
he went, what was left of him, after
the lashed bone and lead toggles were finished
making completely clear who
was who and what was what, out of the city,
a day’s work still to do.

A retrospective piety would have him
gaze down the novel vistas
of Flodden Field, Antietam, Gallipoli
the flaming butter of napalm, the gulf
made in the air when atoms boil, the hiss
of gas to deal with other Jews:
but he may have found it saving grace enough
not to be hating bloody fools.