It is a foreign tongue
burnt into me. Heartstrings
which should have snapped in half by now
strum instead, a piecemeal harmony.
Pentecost comes Sunday, they say.
Crazy people in those crazy buildings
lay sweaty hands on mottled foreheads
stipulate the need for someday-deliverance.
Does it have to be on a screen, projected?
Larger than life, 'oh god, heal, heal, heal me.'
Shaking down the sky
with exhibition, exhortation?
No. Give me a different name for this.
Or rather, leave it nameless:
it is the type of thing that passes
understanding, explanation.
The lexicon of my heart slated
to read fluently a joy
which, by all scientific means,
will never be translated.
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