pulled from the guts of a flooding hull

the crew were poetic & slobbering

in their praise, dust motes blown

across the ocean & smaller now

on their knees. on his knees

looking up, a man’s face lit through

lattice, hair combed like a raven’s

wing, neither sows nor reaps,

has neither storehouse nor barn,

says, thank you. thank you.

he said it like that. said it

just like that.

in droves the doves bring

tufts of hair & turf to bed

the bones of landlocked sailors

before filling an acacia tree,

its limbs cracking under the weight

of their devotion. over a pile of peeled

bark, a lone voice snivels, Lord,

i’ve ripped every page that mentions sin

from your Scripture & yet—

silence. steady as a stoning.

then, from the wing

-bone of a raven,

a harp.