Closer

The locking parts of a mammal, how like Christ
it moves, afloat and fairly weathered,
despite the weather, icy. Viral hands,

chancy hands. Toward the even girth,
wearing the clock into carpet-like.
Its circling, then, bears of the bear cult,

verbs of the everyday cult. Hest out
of your welling envy; clock each time,
breathing out, you imp. Christ,

his last set playing itself out,
the yaks only listening to. Locking
withers to ice parts, troving in virile calm.

The cult toasts its lasting disciplinarian.
It mends Christ his interlocking hands.
A branch in meagerly affairs, the worst, even.

Who mends the rail; this disciple and that
man toasting one god his chance luck. Lastly,
an affair proves handy to a couple what floats closer.