Prone to wonder. Lord, I feel it.
Nomad, no man, no son, father, sun.
I am bright, rusted, and wretched.
You turned the doorknob right,
hot shower and cold bathroom tile.
I was wrapped in that small, soaked rug.
A place that filled the garden of our souls,
superior and sewn, stones dancing across a lake.
Look how Christian a puddle of vomit can be.
You held me, let me breathe into your arm.
You forked my tongue and sewed a map to
North Dakota with that black medical lace.
For Hell’s sake, I am holy, holy, calm, and true.
Be escaped. Be fallen, black, and blue.
My call to evaporate, pulled upwards to
the real adventure. Wide awake now,
bruised vanity, summer of head colds
and bodies washed up on the pebbled shore.
If I took it back, my sunglassed future glance,
my walk of muses, my pacing lonely apartments,
spitting on each and every brick. If I took it back,
but not what I’ve suddenly become: a contrail
of promises, sci-fi crimes, Saturn in the traffic.
I’m chasing altars to the daylight of you.
Feels like I feel it, prone to rip the husk of your lips.
Still, the rusted son of red starlight, gospel music
touching lovers in the limo behind the hearse.
I am lime, let moonlight citrus me further.
Then Sunday will come and sweep it all away,
back into the rose quartz river of a psalm.