Now that your ghost is dead, I joined the church
of my choice. No more care whether you nod
at conformity or frown even at God
when He frees both my mind and soul to search.
No more care when your voice soars and you lurch
toward your pulpit, as you know you cannot prod
back-row sinners to forego coats of clod;
and finally to kneel and honor your perch.
No more care for Calvin’s unmerited grace.
No more fear of heaven and its pit of hell
No more fear of biblical metaphors.
Yet more care for earthly saints than base
mammons; more care for an angelic bell—
good fare for colored flocks and their zero scores.