Prone before the archbishop, he averted his face from the
severe brocade and chasuble stained with incense and filth,
his hands pressed to the cold marble.

I like to think he lay there absently musing on the first time
he focused his cardboard scope, and saw ears on Saturn: he
and his planet, both recklessly deaf to the distant growl of anathema.

Published in the January 23, 2015 issue: View Contents

Rob Sulewski is a playwright who teaches writing at the University of Michigan. His recent work has appeared in the Bear River Review and Blue Unicorn.

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