What the Holy Do

for Previn Keith Butler (1978–2009)

Back when I was God, I had friends.

We wrote our own Bible

And got thrown out of church.

Then I saw one of us again—a man

Pushing into him

From behind. He turned

His final face to the camera

Like a teenager coming

Upon a pimple in the mirror.

The lonely worship alone.

I search out such filth in the cathedral

Of my home, but this time,

With a sheet, I covered the screen.

That’s what the holy do to the body

After shutting its eyes,

And that’s this scribe’s last vision

Of another poorly recorded life

As I talk to myself in late July, dragging

A fan behind me like an oxygen tank.