Mark Conway

The Evangalist at a Distinct Advantage

Divinity is contagious,
some sticks to me,
like dust, or
drugs. It drips down,
slow as love – dumb
and second-hand.

 

I was His favorite. He preferred
me to eternity. But He
was painted in. I pain
not. Nor shall I pant,
or want. I am nothing
but a word.

 

          I suffer
not, I turn from nothing
I want, and in this way I look
impartial, I serve him better
as His imperial tool.

 

                 In time I will relate wonders.
If He so inspires me,
with wonders.

 

On the walks by the sea,
I’m not fasting:
     I’m waiting.
I can wait
for the better food.
If there is no wine,
            we’ll be given wine.
If no bread, fish.

 

What will they do
with the extra fish? Gutted,
the lips still gape,
mouthing glory, glory.
            Bury them,
and the lettuce
runs wild next year.
                The smell
on your hands stays
like He said the soul stays
            behind, a stench
you’re never rid of.