He did not weaken in faith when considering his own body

on a nearby desk
to capture the sack
of you heaved upon
the bed after a long take of day.

Notice the way your hips
heap in the middle
of the frame, your feet
so modest, disappear

off screen, your head floats
nearing the edge—
a mere blip
before you’re gone.

You’d be wrong to assume
the appearance of angels,
the room fully lit,
your body wooed

from the mattress
by Michael or Belial.
There’s no such affair—
just you wed to the pillow

occasionally rolling over
to look directly into camera
delivering your lines
with a long exhale

then a short soliloquy
of snore
but not enough
to rattle the viewer

into doubting your devotion to the art form.