With an altar of a kitchen table and red mornings,
Never able to make sunny-side up eggs properly.
There is more than one way to fry an egg,
As Emperor Aurelian knew before his murder.
Does Roman wine make better breakfast?
Praying at the temple of certainty can be offensive,
Especially when the sun burns your faith.
Do we offer thanks and sacrifice to you ancient lord?
Belief is a virtue cherished above memory,
History owing you a small thanks for Christmas morning.
Shall we celebrate your life or death?
Worship that which can be seen and felt,
Whose effects sting like a dead lover’s lost kiss.
Will our heresy shine light in the abandoned basilica?
In a house on Sunset, besieged by fanatics and lost gods,
We eat our breakfast alone while you quietly observe.