Do you love him more than me?
Is there something beautiful and indistinct
In him?

Can you bow like never  before,
A prayer of spine?

Do you kiss him like an angel,
And dole out your lips to the stupid others?

Does ignorance call your name,
And hope drive the nail?

When I see her again,
She hugs me casually,
And the smell of her hair
Is an ink,
On my wife-beater.
It soils, and oils
And stains.

Beneath the darkness of her car,
The shadows become loam,
And in the cabin she squeezes out a waving hand,
By the time she pulls away
I am working hard
not to pound her hood,
And demand a return trip
To the factory of my heart,
Where she could be a foreman
And wish things of me all day,
Working a hot sheet of my skin
Into a pliable mass,
And the body of my sins
Into the image of God,
So much so,
That the mere dream of that forge would make her stop
Her car
In the middle of the street,
Hop out,
And walk up to me, repeating a sentence in this gist:
She doesn’t know anything anymore,
Not even how she feels about him.

Make me that God of your
Life
Once more,
Deliver me from evil
And the hands of wickedness that render my soul.

I must be a God in your midst,
a love of the mist.

I know my sins,
I only call you when I'm drunk,
hollering your name
in hurtful epithets.