When I see those bumper " I Heart Jesus"
signs, blurting in Biblical but bouncy
script, I have to think how Margery found
her Jesus. He leaned on her bed, his hands
 
beseeched her from beneath his purple silk;
the hot - robed Jesus, liquid groan and gaze.
Come, child . . . melting her resistance with his
pain. Like Priscilla might spot Elvis, hips
 
on high. The lord makes weepy harmony,
twanging his electric lyre, tongue-for-hire.
Crooning like a rocker grooves his groupie:
her strings, her curve, her buzzed hollowbody.