Landing
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