DNA drapes its glucose flesh
across a sour phosphate spine. Tonight,
a waxing crescent creates another forest
from the conifers’ own shadows. So it is
that the spirits spawn a second you
from overworked candles. We all bow
with more confessions than beads
as leopard print camouflages your computer-
white hands from our frosty realm. That light
has always been a chain. Actually, you
would claim, it’s a lot more like a tether–at best,
a hide to warm your jilted skull–
at worst, a leash. Eyes snap shut
during service like jaws snatching
lambs. Psalms are painted
on authority-colored eyelids.
These arching figures murmur hymns
that crunch through fanged robes like sugar
beneath a panicked boot.
Your gloves never stop purring
against your forehead.