Wednesday, October 19, 2011

you should go to church

a clink in the glass
with my icy fingers
she walks away
meditation on the floor
with my prayer hands
he flies to the wind
a bread without flour
for my ragged soul
she sets the table

a bullet to the face
with a cocked smile
alone with my teeth
a flake in the clouds
on salted highways
he shovels out
a page in the hymnal
turning ragged pages
she turns away

a tangle in my hair
with christmas strings
she trims the tree
reflection on the pew
with my prayer hands
we begin to pray
a basket of apples
for my fingers
we went away

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