I am not a poet, as the lines below will demonstrate, but once in awhile an idea and a rhythm come together in my mind and produce something that at least looks like a poem:

It would be a curious god
or a pernicious one
to make us creatures of flesh,
and then instruct us
to despise what we are.
But so the many saints
have despised their bodies,
scourging themselves with ropes,
hair shirts, chains, and creeds,
and so the televangelists
denounce the acts by which
we mortals couple to ease
one another’s loneliness
and to make more creatures of flesh.