Supplicant

Lord, can you hear this old body implore you?

I cathect the blood in the grooves of your hands.

Come down from the groveling
crowds on the mountainsides.

The veins of tomatoes are pregnant with seeds.

Tables spill over with goats, pullets,
pinks of pig. I breathe in a platter
of poison that purples my breaths.

Will the earth rot or be desert?

Will it be soon? A clock
that limps to its hour.

White wires of madness stir me.

The planets decelerate.

I promise to perpetrate your Word.

Are you coming, Lord?

I am but a shard from your side.