& anyway, isn’t this what the body
was made for? In each photograph
she is a dandelion at the birth
of a tornado, granting heaven
its every furious wish. To see
her move - the stuttering ballet, machine
gun scripture inked into the muscles
of her legs, is to know the body, at last,
as not a conduit for prayer, but prayer
Jeremy Radin, “St. Vincent Live at the Wiltern,” published in Drunk in a Midnight Choir (via bostonpoetryslam)