He stood in the door of the temple

And saw red

The beautiful ones

Stressed up like sharks

Creases sharp enough to cut

Hunkered down over their spreadsheet scriptures

Their holy bottom line

These beautiful creatures

Who can never have enough

Who are blind, but for the glint of golden things

Their altars slickened with the substitutionary sacrifice

Of the poor

Tear a rib from me Father

Make them anew

Turn over their chemical tables

Snap the twisted strings of their DNA

My blood boils

bright

red