I am standing at the altar in the narthex near
the window
and am singing out my heart’s content to God inside this church
and am singing out my heart’s content to God inside this church
the notes wind out my throat and curl like smoke
against the ceiling
and languish there, thinning out and coating like a paint,
and languish there, thinning out and coating like a paint,
like a gold leaf, maybe, or a patina
of nicotine above the bar, of algae blooms on the lake
of nicotine above the bar, of algae blooms on the lake
my words, they go no further than the inside of
the ceiling
than the borders, than the shore of this world, filling up
than the borders, than the shore of this world, filling up
the space within me like a snowglobe, or balloon
made from latex
from a rubber tree in South America, divorced from its home
from a rubber tree in South America, divorced from its home
to sit underneath flickering lights,
mercury-filled, listless,
waiting out its time until it’s picked up off the shelf
waiting out its time until it’s picked up off the shelf
or the store shuts down, forgotten, bankrupt,
lights turned off,
the shelves still full, the building broke for something else
the shelves still full, the building broke for something else