and the temple was filled with smoke

there's a bake in the air, a turn
of the table-- the pastel pink of ham,
or a baby's ass, just slapped.
perhaps its my hand. I stuck it out
too far this time, too deep into
the cookie jar-- cracked by the voice
of God. the curve of finger over sin,
the golden hallo around his head-- a pinch
to my ideas of baby Jesus buried in straw.