Wednesday, August 30, 2017

an uncomely god

we are sweaty holocausts,
steam pouring off our bent backs,
ancient temple smoke rising
before the madonna in the rock

queen of mist in mornings//
hear our prayer

my toe cracks open,
thick blood pools,
like overripe paint,
in my sandal-bed,
clotting as the lamb's blood
must have in the gutters
of the tabernacle in springtime.

queen of hot afternoon Starbucks line//
hear our

there is not much to offer today
besides tears as payment for some beauty,
a racing heart when I think of you,
and steam that sublimes us into
pure burnt offering.

queen of moonrise over glassy lakes//
hear,
here.

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