Prose: her prayer was dead on arrival

when you see her on the streets again and her hair is glazed with afternoon song,
do you ask yourself what is it like, what is it like
in a book that you wrote, still reads like it did since morning
words you saved for painting in a bird, or perhaps
you traveled to each apartment window, the grass wet with mourning
a shutter made half closed eyes, its creases disturbed you
how could any creature sleep through what you could not
and see the same face mourning,
these words, she would understand the stagnancy of your hands
and why they bend, and sag
the nails bitter with failing

it read like a mass and how the children looked through the tabernacle, in afternoon smog
for a hole in the wall savior, ashes fell and placed themselves on their tongues
running through pews and kissing widows, you were young, still
how did she lack such innocence then, standing with that look, sick with prayer behind you
could you tell her how, you read a million pages of skin unfolding skin,
when you touched her, everything scattered when she asked you
what would happen in a few years and all that is left, will there be a child, will you
love me when your cheek is close to my cheek, there will be no money? will we
be together when my eyes close against yours finally, the ocean sweeps us away and
eats us into sand?

buried under the holy dark, used condoms wet and warm, your words built around
"vacancy" and "humiliation", the dark rising in her face
blooms with weeds and dried roses, what you tried telling her, wasn't worth
keeping, a psalm being blowing out like how the sun unlights the night,
when you wrote the end.