Show me your teeth, God. Tonight, at the Apple Store
under the unshut moon. Visit me tonight, God.
Fog this spirit mirror with your Word —
blind me with this new handheld eclipse.
Oh, but my head sings with standing
so long as the marrow of this sun-bleached bone.
Church as mirage. Along its aisles a mosaic of moments
shimmer like ghost-salt on the banks of the Thames.
Tonight, God, I’ll read a revelation in these circles,
scry myself a future in this tiny crystal disc. For now
hours pass as seances. One day you’ll call me inwards
and in I’ll walk
as the manmade moon glows ripely,
half-hungered, leaving tiny razored lips.