where every millenia one bird flies past
and alters the stone that would have sacrificed itself to idols*

The poem is written loosely in my clothing.  I wrap it into my hair
decorated with sighs as I prepare to leave home each morning
I check myself in the mirror and in all possible reflections,
just to be sure it hasn't unraveled in the absence of audience
or that some subtle aspect of it's beauty hasn't morphed
into something else since last I looked.

What you think is vain is simple.
Is there anything I might have missed?

Look again. Look again.
What have you missed?

How am I ever to find God when all I want is Art?

Given: To be an artist is to be driven solely by sin.
  
Lustful enough to encompass the world,
Greedy.

Vain enough to imagine that God with her many arms,
mother and eater of worlds
could be woven into the ascendant strata of my spine.
She could climb up from my gut a ladder built of the basest desires
and from the space between hemispheres, jump out across the synapse
as light cast into the void, and echo of herself to herself singing only *I am.