%1

I recently came across a record by 1960s Episcopal priest and jazz musician Robert Owen.

No, Matthew’s gospel doesn’t mention me
when I was in that boat, wrestling that sail.
But someone had to do it—I could see
the waves were high, the wind a roaring gale.

The others wouldn’t help, saying they were shocked,
spotting our reckless rabbi suddenly
walking on water, then our stubborn ox—
yeah, Peter—trying to walk like he was He.

(That’s so Peter: first to speak, first to act,
pushing his pushy self against the master,
as if that made him Number One in fact,
as if he’d get to heaven even faster.)

The fantasy of Severance is that we can avoid facing the moral peril of the structures we inhabit.

               Flies swarm
over mulberries
               mashed on the road,
purple pulp fermenting
               in the heat beneath the tree’s
heavy shadow.
               Rorschach blots.