As if my legs are a nurse
tending the sins of the world.
There's a torture

in the light emptying sight.
I watched wine turn to blood
then fill my eyes.
Now I stare at the 
tower, like cattle stare at the
bolt. As if my skull is nailed
to this cross.

Majesty
of the Father in sound.
And the Spirit
hovering in tongues.
Yet God can't sustain
such racket.

I'm not Jesus Christ.
Yet stigmata
open my skull.
One nail for each
miracle.