Teach me please the theology of fingertips

Teach me please the theology of fingertips
fine lines of logia supple and soft.
Steeple my palms with your walnut-warm thumb-ends,
trace suddenly and feather-light
the theodicy of paradox on my skin.

Show me now the colour of pollution
spangled nitrates refracted on cones.
Drape your arm carelessly around my shoulders
hold the hack of ozone in hazed lungs.
Drive me through valley's cotton-wad fog.
never seen before or since and
shake me awake in the thin of morning
and teach me the theology of staying alive.