Uneven lights on the tree
   a crooked star
 foriegn voices
   scratching the surface of the air
 religionless.

   They say
three inches of snow in Kentucky,
   but the pavement here
      is bare, oil stained
   we are a city.

   How do you understand the fog on the window,
the cold in the air
   as if it were
  phenomanal, a thing
 of being? The tissues
   on my desk make a piled white cloud
      Religionless,
   I am not Jesus.
     I breathe.

   I am infiltrated, great branches
spitting decay,
    and how are you,
  at home?
    Religionless, too?
  Home for a virus
    awaiting death.
Breathing, fucking, sleeping.
 Jesus is dead.