Sometimes this picture confuses,

like syrup on a cigarette,

oil on the windshield.

The un-formed flock of geese

flying north against

a summer wind.


Sometimes this picture is untrue,

the slice of 3.15 pi,

the lace motorcycle chain,

pedophile laughter.

When whiskey is a

throat’s single yearning.


Sometimes this picture is out of tune,

like salt on apples,

the executioner bathing

before work,

a fork for the soup.

The glass breaks before

it’s blown, shattered before

it’s shaped.


Sometimes this picture is blinding,

the symphony to the deaf,

sunlight to the blind,

a lover’s touch to the dead.

The ground spitting back

her saints, so deeply planted.


Sometimes this picture is.

When the choir is one of many in one,

and the gathering day actually

believes another will follow.

There is a louder sunset to come,

a brighter song held lightly under

the tongue of an eager morning,

when there is no smell where

death should be.

2 thoughts on “Lent

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