The body is a metaphor for God –
your limbs are fourfold gospels with a raised

hand aligning your soft-pumped blood
to text: echocardiography,

leaving its witness as pattern and prayer.
The heart itself is sanctuary lamp, 

red and steady even as it flickers
over your shimmering stanzas of flesh.

The body holds its wounds and folds,
is skin striated by a turning world.

That thoughtful look is iconography –
your phrase-mark frown eliding note

with note; your mouth is utterance
and hunger for an answer. Touch

is grace-note, blessed selection, patter
of water. Every cup and curve is love, 

a vessel fit for wonder; and is good.