Her love for God is that of a desperate man;
she worries what would happen with her needs met.
The problem isn’t the landscape, it’s the line;
this city is too falsely modest for her.
No one refers to her as a nice lady;
she is violently kind in a womanly way.
Children speculate about what’s in her purse;
friends see hammered rhymes and cover art in there.
The problem isn’t the sacred, it’s the saint;
the bread and wine go down like forty proof gin.
Her love for God is that of a dying thief;
she wonders what would happen with her needs met.