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Your skin is full of revelations. I know them, biblically. And when we travel through dusty trails, the eyes follow us. The jealousy boils the land. But our eyes are waiting for darkness. For one bright star to show us the way. The wisdom held in withered hands, fragrant dreams. Dancing in scarves, sleeping in straw. Now these common signs have become gifts. We breathe in stolen scents, spend our own footsteps like money. We play music to honor the literature that binds our cells, taps morse code inside our chromosomes. And come to realize these tree-lined hearts are too full to remember the infancy of adoration. The wet paint of heartbreak. How the virgin decisions of small mouthed kings caused the caving in of coliseums. And our bleak hands broke bread and fed each other miracles. Fought like fish in tiny tanks. Delivered our own salvation through a series of misled mornings. Now it’s wrong numbers and empty tables. We fast and feast and forage in forests of drowning adventures. Inventing new verses, psalms pouring down like new rain. Old fashioned fashions of long streams of silk woven by hand on tired wooden looms. Locked in greedy rooms. Stood at the window; saw it all unfold.
