The Fleshy Column of Nakedness

“The bedclothes like the curtain torn from top to bottom in the temple by Michael’s hand and stained with his sweat”

No question could have brought him forward to

Attention of them — and no answer might.

The greater gods look out with wider view,

Past ought, to time before there was no night.

He stood alone.  He slept alone though sweat

On him was greater than the greatest god.

The hairs on him were Lucifer’s, like threat.

The ones below his arms made others look like fraud.

He raised his arms and holy language from

The choirs of heaven fell.  The god of tongues

Lashed out with glossolalia, the sum

Of what is sacred like archangels’ lungs.

  He lay there sprawled in August’s city heat

    Upon the druggie bedroom’s bloody sheet.

©PhillipWhidden