Knife Spinning on a Railroad Tie

The crosshairs of the spirit-rifle weren't crossroads
          coordinates in the Holy Ghost pamphlet, and no one
gleaned the Jesus operation he endured, but
           his gourd expanded because of the light,

not in spite of it, and there wasn't a dry mouth
          in the morgue, the congregation jerking upright
like mud puppies seeking a whetstone to hide under.
          Elk gods swung the clock hands of their horns,

shattered his time globe and erased his proven beast.
          In scripture he walked the tracks from Balsam Post Office
all the way to Lake Fontana. Arriving in an icy sweat
          and wearing a burlap shroud, he studied on the trestle

and swung his dizzy legs. Wielding his daddy’s
          pig-sticker, he sliced off the soles of his feet
          and gave his walking blood to the living
almond-colored waters, the youthful font.
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