The Spirit of God

is lurking – a cat
in the hedges, a
crow in a cornfield,
an owl at midnight
with eyes like tornadoes –
He enters in under
half-broken windows,
with infinite fingers
that clutch at your bed,
he tickles your toenails
with invisible tongues and
licks on a callous
that turns into sand.
He takes his time moving
from foot up to gonad,
his great hands hold softly
the sallowest sword, and life into
hitherto un-lifelike organ
comes rushing like rivers
grown full in the storm.
Then up he moves gently,
toward teeth clenched like vices,
and opens them slowly
with parting red lips,
his words like a mountain
unfold streams of sunrise
that spill like clear water
down your orifice, his eyes
touch your eyelids, as lightly as prayer,
shedding their sadness
the way a priest mourns
your irises blossom
with deeply red roses
and petals of hyacinth
shaped in a cross.

The spirit of God
steals away softly – a fly
in miasma, a
thief in gray mist,
a star in darkness
swallowed by streetlights –
He leaves through the
half-open sun of horizon,
and grieves as a servant
who’s lost his beloved.