There is a kind Christian shadow
folding over your jagged outline;
ubiquitous is Jesus that every cup
becomes a Grail and every
sheet becomes the Shroud:

the balm of martyrdom quells your pain.
But to heal yourself, you must grieve.

You can not do this as a pure light.
You can not do this as a prophet assuming resurrection.

Give up the ghost,
dear spirit.

You are dark as dark can be.