Kingdom come,
   and your delicate hands
Sermon Simon says in the pews.
Nausea hymnals; blood rushing
   to your head, then to feet
in corpuscle pinching tight dress shoes.
Pulpit stealing thunder,
   coveting brimstone.

Simmering undeterred,
our eyes meet
   in furtive sidelong glances.

I’ll suffer the proddings and
   the orthodoxy
the yessir and amen.
Hollow absolutions; Clean cut expectations.
Bleed against the cookie cutter steel,
   dividing you.
Conquer your heart amidst the stifling gazes.
Run the gauntlet.
I’ll follow you to hell and back,
Even if they think it should be
   a one-way ticket.