The Father and I
get canonized huffing
mineral spirits.
We could teach benediction to the
Coin-trick Saint! he revelates to his palms, to
just shy of 75
aspirant
Brides of Christ who gather
afield kicking
serious shit-storms of doubt, dirt
and dance til they are spent,
lying in a heap,
translating the percussion of settling dust:
You
done
good,
one begins, then 3 and 10,
'til all harbor the same stimuli--
yet mine comes out like this?
My first and final vow:
I love you. In fact.
In fiction
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