The room was full of Christians
Colliding in grace
I said ‘at least you do it for the love of it’
And in the way that it does
Their hair matted, lips pouted, middle-lives
Slightly higher black population
Because it’s good and proper
To ignore your tumours.
What is time if not for wasting?
And what are words if not for creating?
Such faith is like a fingernail
Just attached to the skin
Matter, benign, growing on the spinal cord
When you go to bed tonight
Close the curtain full
To cancel the divine light.
There’ll be one less Christian in the room
Upon waking up.