I am a great pillar of white smoke.
I am Lot's nameless wife turned to salt.

I am the wound on Christ's back as he moans
with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist.

I am the nail that holds his house together,
the long nail in his right wrist that points

toward heaven.  I am that nail and I am
the builder of the house, a strong house

with a sound foundation.  I am not the only
one who lives here.  I am the god of

a race of dust mites who build monuments
in my honor every day in the small dark

corners of my house.  I destroy each one
before I sleep each night.  Every morning

there are still more.  I am unaware where
all of them are.  There are too many.

I am a god without a name in an empty house.
I am an open wound festering in the white sun.