A Bible should not be in mint condition.
Let it stoop in a dead cell
surplice from fingers
immemorial fumbling for comfort,
maculate, creased as Methuselah's hands.
In an empty room, King James buckram frays.
Month by month it coats
wherever it lands wan damask.
Hell is hypothermia
if ashes are angels.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem