Their stomachs rumble

with heaven’s emptiness,

their hands shatter in each other.

They know God is watching with

his squinting, demanding eyes,

but still, they kiss,

something soft, something small,

something that does not beg forgiveness.

They wake each morning

with dirt in their mouths,

feet raw from running.

They have made themselves unclean,

or so the holy books say.

They bathe in hot springs,

let steam rise from their skin.

In water, they are weightless,

lighter than sin,

freer than shame.

Here, they invent a new kind of purity,

a cleansing not written in scripture.

They wash their wounds

without repentance,

scrub away nothing but fear.

Yet still, God’s voice burrs in their ears.

Still, heaven is empty

because of their abandonment.

They tell these stories

to other soft boys

with dreams of running,

pressing heads to their chests,

whispering real poetry—

the kind that would be stolen

some hundreds of years later.

Their faces are still carved in the sun.

And if you can find their eyes,

you are clean.