it's hard to concentrate on a moving sock of prayers.
the english language in bandages pent up and grasping for a dawn breath.
dawn like the leveling of its natural masters into a single bursting stream.
this pigeon modernity finding respite in a leaflet of altar dreams.
woozy and squeamish the haze of miracles creeps into oblivion's shoes.
walk tenderly amongst the streamline of coarsened hair, unwashed over the years.
blurry incantation need not a sunset to cease the lonely psalms from washing over mouths.
with a million points of light illuminating the bandaged ritual,
we begin to grow in dust.