It's been a long time since God,
or gumption. We have stayed
complacent in our twisted desires. No stranger
to the postures of heaven,    like everyone,
I too have kept my prettiest face to the light.
I mean, don't you love me? Book burning black
from its lettered core, I have held aloft
a shiny front. I find no need for quintessence
or praise. I hold no desire for divine machinations.
I am a citizen of every country of the body; coward
to the question of myself.  Again and again, God
touches the rotten fruit of my body and nothing blooms.
Isn't it sad? For the longest time, I dreamt
in cursive—of angels and wings and light.
I shot forward into time wearing nothing
but my father's exquisite gowns.
And then suddenly, the risk grew too large,
the block letter of my body arrived, and stood
against itself. In the center of a garden, a tree
weary with fruits—but not forbidden;
just forgotten. The ship of a body docks
in bad tide at the port of heaven
and finds its anchor cannot hold.
What, O Lord, have we made of our
mooring; of that blessed tether of the head
that now won't drop in worship?