We’ll have no god but a new god
who can listen to the wind in our blood
when he journeys all the world’s galleries of sound,
hearing us sing no prayer but a new prayer
in a street opera with all the light of faith in repose.
Let him break bread in this new dominion
and wander the strange geographies of our bodies,
the lips aged by toil,
the hands weak from use,
the genitalia expended,
all the world’s largesse sprawling on our skins
like an endless melody unraveled by touch.
He may find us unfamiliar;
we had been made foreign by his absence.
Let there be no writ but the only writ:
we fashion our temples into concert halls
so the sonorous god will know
what we’d meant by “absolution”
when, wearied by travel and tribulation,
the final thing possessed
is a song connecting
one soul to the next.