Without any tricks
Miracles become the marginal role
Weighing my skin in this darkness
The voices
The names
The hands of my old man trembling upon my chest
Collecting armful shelves
Inscribing the birthed punctuality
The brief audience spinning for change
Confined leprosy passageways
Guiding me combed
Licking my quoted head
Erratically removing the paganism instilled
The talks the white bearded temples
Angel crashing with gloom
Waiting for me to readjust with touch
Their cross with tiny marbles
Terracotta beads with fruit
Purple thorns with passion
Forging their hung air with memory
Their wounded feet with livers
With livers who process impatiently
Who love organically and true
