Everything is made of small triangles
and square shapes here,
Paisley patterns float over wood
floors
I am in the upper room, waiting for a
ritual
that never happens. I search for emotion-redemption -
am left searching.
am left searching.
I sleep in the room that belonged to a
child that is now
no-longer-with-us, and the tensions
between my universe and that one
ripple softly over me, tucking me in,
forgetful of the divide.
We are all children of god, whoever
that is, and I smoke cigars with her father.
Don't worry, stop worrying, my feet are
never cold
I gather eggs for the morning.
I never met you, not-among-us,
but your
shadow falls over,
immense.
cornfields absorb hymns,
the congregation is shoeless again.
There are different deaths,
not-among-us.
After you left candles were lit for the quiet.
