the arrangement of God

John Chrysostom preaches jazz—

I stay up all night to hear it,

see it—fire raining outside

moussaka diner Eucharists,

eyeing out eternity in intimate,

bright-eyed company,

seeking, like Lazarus’ dogs,

to lick away wounds, 

peel back the sores

scarring the world’s dermal divinity.

Until we see it:

a love-encrusted world,

and we are baked in it.

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