Can’t

I spoke of it gingerly
In the back corner booth
Not of my choosing
Appropriately dark yet public, alike
I wondered
Would they believe or deny their ears
Embrace me or send me packing
Give or take,
It has been eleven hundred fifty five days
I still cannot tell if the words left my lips

Fluent

Piece
After
Piece
I have thrown after hope
That day might be anew

Under the microscope
Through the telescope
Yet not to the naked eye
Indeed it has
It is

Crisp, though unbleached
Comfortable, too
With a new song
In a language
I will struggle to learn, I will

Received

Has it been said to me
Before
Through some spirit
Holy or Otherwise
I do not recall

Just that it occurred to me
Or came to me
Just this moment
Through some spirit
Holy for Certain

That
Any
Good in me
Is
Christ in me

Forehead


Hallowed. Unhallowed.
Echoes unheard.
All the chasing. All the fleeing.
Hearts unmoved.

Under this roof. Within these hearts.
Lives entwined.
Careful words. Cherish the skin.
Beings enthralled.

Screen

The other side of a window
There must be smoke
Smell of it!
Midnight, late night smoke
Biding its time
Considering hiding the fire
Not thinking we keep careful watch
Will it expect
Our reach through the screen
Our grasp, when we rip out its heart?