Gaunt and tall with a starveling face, he
wears a leather apron with an assortment

of hanging stars and sheathed blades,
a broadsword strapped across his back

as he walks, practicing the presence of the hilt.
He doesn’t need anyone to teach him

His creed is his cutlass, to create or to kill
He realizes all the experts were wrong

He turns his face to God, his knives flashing
like silver fish jumping hand to hand

If you’ll show me the truth, I’ll follow it
He is a priest now and he is flawed

He knows a class of people whose teeth 
devour the poor and needy from the earth 

He knows the grave, the barren womb,
and the leech are never satisfied

He knows steel brings heaven to earth
and the air is a fair gift for slicing

Eternity abides in him like a mirthful oil
taken up residence in his body, hallowed.

He is anointed, but not of the earth,
Look at me, he says. I’ve done nothing wrong.