Can’t scrub veins free of Aids. 

Soap is much too dirty,

And bleach is poison to the blood.

Death is a disease, born at birth -

Walking, talking corpses, strung up,

Like marionettes for the woodpile.

Can moral medicine cure dead legs?

and can religion resurrect?

God is a life-giving dove,

lighting on the unfit soul.

All the sick can do is ask,

Those Jesus came to heal.

Like winter warmth from heaven.

Golden life and sun-stained windows,

Wakes the singular soul. 

Shadow-rich pages, like plush pools,

Groans deeper than mere atoms;

Where the Creator greets my heart.