He’s been brought down from the cross again,
        as in the Gospels, for restoration:
        limestone Christ, entombment scene, 
                soon cleaned of mold and grime, 
the divine enfleshed in dust, the flesh of time.
        If I were a finer believer, I wouldn’t see 
        His body in immodest repose,
                the Classical physique, as I see you 
undressed by moonlight and want to rest against the stone. 
        But unlike Him you keep me warm. Look,
        He’s been brought down before—ancient graffiti—
                and had love carved into Him once more.
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