The Cross

There is a painted blue cross
in the sky tonight where
bullet-holed stars bolster it up.
I smell like blood tonight,
as if I've killed someone;
the sinner, alive, the victim
nailed to wood. This is the hour
for earnest prayer. Here is
the stone handed to me, the first
to wield it. As for my soul,
it has no hands, it has no weight,
it has no immunity.

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