To Be Without God Is To Be

Take Adultery Or Theft. Merely Sins. It Is Evil Who Dines On The Soul, Stretching Out Its Long Bone Tongue. It Is Evil Who Tweezers My Heart, Picking Out Its Atomic Worms.

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

Once I Was Beautiful. Now I Am Myself, Counting This Row And That Row Of Moccasins Waiting On The Silent Shelf.

I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love Me When Really My Soul Is Deformed? Will You Love Me Anyhow?

Then All This Became History. Your Hand Found Mine. Life Rushed To My Fingers Like A Blood Clot. Oh, My Carpenter, The Fingers Are Rebuilt. They Dance With Yours.