-- for Spencer Reece
Today it’s Hopkins and his obscure spiritual contraptions –
everything I read is heart-corseted, like a concealable vest,
police surplus good as new. Some fanatic is packing a gun.
I turn to Hopkins – living speech – sprung,
stressed, compressed – then I’m off again, help me, obsessed.
O, restless mind – my own strange spiritual contraption.
Armor with a warranty: order it online – unless you’re a felon.
But a killer aims at your head when you’re his holy pretext.
Right to choose: third eye, bull’s eye. Some fanatic is packing a gun.
Why is the body so feared, its physicality, its passion?
Even Hopkins – the beauty of the body is dangerous – wrestling
with God, that obscure spiritual contraption.
Last week I read we’re wired for God: blessed evolution.
We’re (spring me!) wired to control – oil, water, sex.
God help us: tonight a fanatic is packing a gun.
Another doctor shot. The killer thinks he’s won.
Bodies, ourselves – mere rhetoric? Beauty is the spirit fleshed.
I mourn, I get ready for work, I put on my contraption,
it presses on my heart. Some fanatic is packing a gun.