We harm
our stunning bodies. We repent

every time. Forever climbing out
from our mud into your mess

of feathers and music, everything
ringing of angels,

we reek of borrowed lovers.
We shift toward you

if only to rinse our filth
                                    in glory.

Welcome us at your will.
But if you ask us to praise you

beneath your minced stars
and sky flat with artifice,

show your blistering face.
Unlock

our stubborn mouths. Force
the worship rumbling from our lips

like birds              flung awkwardly
from a quaking wire.