A PREACHER'S TONGUE

The poor little creature
can't ever stop,
tired though he is
from the onslaughts

of deafening applause—

the spontaneous response

to a disgusting

and difficult—
job well done.
For his one

and only
mysterious duty is

to manage
what no other
part of this

congregated
body could muster—

the translation
of pure

light,

the re-appropriation its
its intangible
context

and metamorphosis of its blithe

resonance into 

some kind of ordinary

reassuring residue,

some kind

of sticky, translucent fluid 

that's sugary
but nourishing—
and legitimate enough

to be kept
in a little silver carpenter's

cup—until such time
as one arm
is ready

to come along
and lift
and slurp it up,

returning it to him,

so he can
wearily

commence—
anointing the entire place 

by licking it

clean, from
top—

to bottom.