Preacher

what do the eyes know
about touching

or the ears about this precipice
of a yawn

whose designer feet
elude the water

you squeaky cleaners
fighting for your lives

even your signatures twist
into moth or rust

my electric heater
may be possessed by demons

but inside my lungs
there’s a city of light

even at the edge of the forest
limbs reach out

such is the hunger
for god’s own sun

i hold the holy book
against my chest

it sits between my nipples
like a little black dog

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