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.