Addiction Nonetheless

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

When God-head let him go unfinished quite,

His hair was holy, perfect in its curls

Of black as if creating Saint John’ light

Had been mistaken and as if no girls

Were needed.  Shoulders and his underarms

Were lifted towards the forest of the trees

Of Heaven.  Whiskers, lips and other charms

Combined to make a face that felt the breeze

Jehovah wanted in the world.  The feet

Walked on with skips of silliness that meant

A freedom to ignore the texts too neat

For love.  The angels squealed and gave assent.

  Yet best of all was flesh of power and need

    That gave him fate and force to make hearts bleed.