When the monks came to town my fingers were too loose.
I let them bless that which others had given me
And so I am without a single holy thing.
Now, I treat everything like a deity
Until the monks return.
As I wait:
I sit still in the wet grass, sun-burned and ******
With my paperback lying on the ground.
(a god, forgotten temporarily, soaking in the dew)
It spins me a curse.
I am oblivious to this as
I wish
To be a spirit
Flowing from body to body
Knowing nothing but your face.