Smoke drifts westward like saints seeking / Zion, a rose in the desert. / / This faith is a dark handcart / to pull.
Something spoke, and something / / inside me answered, / and I understood none of it
your only prayer / / is the hour singing and hanging at your neck, / until the singing and hanging / become a starless treelight dress you wear
"I’m not asking for a handout. Fair deal. Cash on wood. I’ll do you a trick. One trick. Life-changing magic, I promise."
And perhaps we create the sacred not by putting our trust in the institutions that are supposed to guard it, but by demanding that these institutions relentlessly revise themselves toward the sacred.
Church is only open on Sunday.
My mother owned a cauldron so rusted, nothing could live in it. / / Sometimes, I swore, I could feel the sharp tips of the orange crescent moon.
When I lament the bag trapped somewhere / in the bowels of Heathrow’s Terminal 5 / / The agent asks is any of it irreplaceable?
