My lips bear witness. Distemper!
Those who chain Sunday
from the doors of their week,
how flaccid their Amens,
how thin their charity.

Take this, my body.
I make my bed –
earnest as salt –
in your promises –
all vanities will be laid low,
even to the ocean’s floor.

And waves will be
wreaths of white,
our bridal skirt,
and we will glory-glory!
in the name of the sword
that will cut them,
in pieces, in pieces
like rude weeds
in a good man’s
vin-n-n-n-nnn-ne-yard.