Dear God, please help me
because my legs are shaking loosely,
my lungs are pumping air profusely,
and there's a rhythm inside of me.

There's a man with a little clock
in my head, and he's ticking
and my twin's thinking
as my soul's picking
the finest fruit from the tree of temptation,
that very tree where you met me and
told me to be free.

But I fear I am sinning
with a cloak down my back
and hair that ties itself
into knots and knacks
that let beetles crawl ashore.
But you told me I am winning,
and your voice is too soft to let go.

And I am a new person!
A songbird perched upon a shell
with life creeping inside of it,
not struggling or suceeded,
neither brain-dead or in hell,
but simply pulsing out sand
and water to be held.

Cur across the revelation,
a stretching arm, a closed hand
I am no longer just a locket
or a pick-pocket, full of sand