Like a block party with smoke.
Little godspittle showers the hair on our arms.
My hair still smells like burning church.
I know folks brought under the grace of some fog there.
I know folks joined in word and deed there.
I know the love that won't falter without an altar.
Holy Holy Holy
Hiss on the house when a steeple calls out:
the AM static of a thousandth rescue mission.
Your lashes were fastened, fascination came second,
and the minutes were mashing up symbols with actions.
My Is bled all over the page,
and I couldn't cross my Ts without a prayer and a bowed head.
In the dark, back to ark, my feet were bare.
There was glass in all of the parking lots.