Leviticus 6

The altar smolders, its flames
are dying. On the brink of sleep,
my eyes blink with smoke
and the ash settles

on my dewy forearms like the manna,
falling silently,
covering the camp each morning.
I rise to change

into linen rags, stained
from these midnights of clearing.
The bronze is searing, charred
bits of goat and ram, scattered sacrifices

are swept aside.
Always, the tremble of my shoulder,
the blackened breath caught on my lips;
always, the burden of fear.

It must keep burning.
These sins, birds torn at the wing,
bulls skinned and washed,
guilt and it's ever gripping hand;

forgiveness must continue its crackle,
in all its intensity it must always
ignite the offerings and
turn sin into dust.

And I, it seems,
must always clean this up.