The Entombment

Christ hangs dead and limp
between the silken arms
of Babylon's best whores,
toneless like a dusty olive.
He's green, a ghost of oils,
no ochre in his pores,
among the dancing silk,
the bursted gates of beards,
he swings silently on worlds.
At his feet a girl has fallen
with an arm of canvas
Michaelangelo forgot to paint.
The ground is brown and rises
in a tide, grey and nothing.
Golgotha falls in patches
from the blue punched through
heaven, to there below
his broken, floating toes.