There is a place
         where
        pith is skin
       and
      literature is lingerie
     and
    gospel is redheads
   and
  cantaloupe seeds
 and
accent-soaked aliens.

Heat lingers
 from
  the hands
   and
    the hymns rooted
     in
      mosaic pillars
       and
        contraband corn syrup
         and
          raw dewy youth.

          I learned everything I know
         from
        a wheelchair
       and
      two wifebeaters
     behind
    an apple pie anthill
   where
  white frosting cures pink eye
 and
algae grows on feet.

Born in the East
 but
  alive in the South
   is
    a oasis
     where
      God is eccentric
       and
        eternal
         and

          so am I.