Unique selling point

A poem by Jonathan Wooding

Fall of dregs-from-the-wine-vat petals:
unprogrammed, let’s say, or aleatory blossom.

The thought (today’s) is this: unique
selling point of religion is (still) holiness.

Petals in blood-spill asymmetry
make it more arduous for reason to prevail.

Stamens sift rich sand in timbre,
shock flakes are tumbled pumpkin.

Count the fallen petals. Sixteen.
The nib of my pen jussive in this affair.

Holy order. How could it be arbitrary otherwise?
And as it happens, four left on one stem.

Now, in this confusion of colour and coloratura
something’s transparent apparent –

(as wine too may only mean one thing in such a case;
it’s always close on disclosing, after all) –

We shan’t last long. Holiness takes her chances.
She falls in the dreg-petals, drunken.

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