bid me come
as a little child.
The finger pointing Sacred Heart
like a passing billboard
"You're Name Could Be Here."
I read brilliant smoking atheists
and wonder whose name they'll cough
up final in blood spit.
I read monks, who never knew stamps,
of eternal consequence, by candle and quill.
I stick my knuckles out
for the nuns to rap, but only the Lord answers,
perfecting the Harlem shake.
after cure and care
are settled alike.