The squalor we live in comes from our pores,
excretions of consumers' entrails--
all the wrappings, all the cars, all the cellphones,
or other blessed technology,
(Hosanna to the microchip!)
oozing down streams of moribund oil wells,
photochemicalling ourselves into new creations.
Microscopic plastic beads float in our water,
our air, our bodies metastasizing us
into hydrocarbon chains of permanence.
What need of God when eternity flows
nanopiece by nanopiece in the blood,
collecting in the liver--that prophetic organ--
the first to go.
"Roll me over in the clover and frack me"
is the hymn we sing, embracing
horizontal drill points like St. Teresa
clutches ecstatic darts of Christ.
Make us true believe while our pores
bear witness to doubters
bound for holy decay.
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