sing for the day that the Lord maybe made:
“no ghosts in Arizona, not even
coldness in the corpses; forgiveness hurts.”
the bodies don’t care for the shape of her
backyard bluegrass blacker with embarrassment.
show the skeletons what her closet lacks.
stop to listen. near hear some bored yellow
toile wall’s wheezy billow. too exhausted
to recall fine elephants who swig deep,
gore sweet, then stick around for a free show:
“her compositions seek composure.” sure.
so do pentecostal women who screech
without tongues. belonging shatters weaker
herd beasts. focus on roars that rise alone.
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