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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.
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