by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
those fingers
long with dirty nails
and sticky
skin that sheds and pales
exposed to light
from which they hide
much pleasure from such grief derive
they cast their shadows
webs and muck
and make the dark grow
twist and duck
away from truth
and gobble lies
as adolescents do french fries
the hands from which they grow
grab sin
and arms encircle
children in
and horror spread like table cloths
seeking putrescence like mad moths
they've smeared their souls
like naked skin
with slime sought, found and made
so in
a thick coccoon of stinking black
their teeth they lick and wet lips smack
and pick the rot between those teeth
and eat the filth that round them seethes
and spawn
alike
with mates whose firm
beliefs make those who see You squirm
Beloved
help me to scarpe away
these clinging remnants of decay
and show my lambs
Your grace alone
as over all Your cross has shone