the prophet reads Asher Lev
the LORD has spoken. what is there but to scream
in a special way, laugh in the special way visiting angels
never suspect. to blaze bone-fuel from marrow
to skin. to see between thin spaces with eyes attuned
to the sacred simplicity altar-ed in daily life: bread
and water, sex and cartoons. every trade has her whores,
you said. but this is no easy trick: an apprenticeship
for grasping a mantle of stars, sewing a waistcoat
of wind with calloused fingers, attempting to clothe
naked children content and bound only by certain
death. perhaps we’re all sixty seconds away from salvation,
soft reprieves convincing us religion’s still a dream
worth dreaming. a holy reclamation project—the artist,
the poet, the preacher, searching for lies that scan well.