Sunday, After a Service

Organ grumble, coffee breath, altar flecked pale blue and gold

(it is morning) and once the sermon’s over: This is my body, broken…

Metaphors, metaphors. Afternoon—I am happy!—the sun disallows them,

the sidewalk all sunlight and surfaces, my mind all putty and lint,

the city slides off it, nothing sticks. You walk with my hands

in your hands, on your lips, eyes trained on the glaring pavement

(I pay it no mind). Today it’s one long mirror, so much shattered glass.

Bad luck for whom, and for how long?

Listen, I am happy! Ask how we got there. I follow my fingers

(I am inside your throat) I unpack a suitcase, exhale theatrically.

Looking to play pranks, scuff things up a bit. So little room,

and not a soul to share it with. To be happy—

Look down till your eyes hurt, look up for relief.

That gauzy ball of sun rolls anywhere; give it away—

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