What arrived could be subscribed to.--Robin Behn, “30 Windsor”

Shine. Shine outward
from your body. Make them
sing you in seven octaves.
This is not fantasy, it is
the Sunday morning worship
service, it is how “catholic”
in fact means universal, how
“orthodox” is more than just
a fifty-cent traditional.

There are different ways
to worship, most
of which do not involve
the act of awaking.
You do not have to rise
from bed, my savior,
you can stay right here.
The mourners
and the praise-singers
will come to you,
the procession, as always,
clothed in stained glass
and puppy fur. This
is immediate. This
is reactive. This
is stable yet unstable.
Quarks prove to us
there is no order in the universe, yet
our bodies stay coherent,
do not melt into one another
when I worship you. How is this?
I can wish to melt
into you. I can hope.
And each morning I can renew
my faith, perceive my skin
as ice.

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Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Pink Litter, and The Literateur, among others.