Does grit mean
strumming the stucco with your knuckles
so it bleed self-evidently?
Carry a tune,
callous of entry.
I'm a saint by pumice stone,
adored through moony scruples.
I'm the sun behind her mechanism,
brimstone gentrified in duplicate.

They're all fine.
From a certain distance
thinness, or atmosphere they're
two dimensional and matte.
Couldn't be singled out, but by
telescope,
as a blemish in the image, coarse-
in grain practically falling apart.

I swear I can't bear those penitent men,
rinsing their sins all over my feet.
Fasting and ash,
but I just want to be
worshipped,
as polaroid on his cork board-
only so pretty as poorly rendered,
and about five inches
by three and a half.

I'm writing in lines of
(applause)
for landed airplanes.
You know how they have been
dive-bombing the seas
lately.
Cast praise when they beat runways,
grit has been a rough entry.
And then there's going home; gotta face the kisses
and stomach the pounds, if you can,
distantly.