#692

Blowing glass near
the furnace, the thumb
of its bulb revealing
the swollen face of a planet.

Outside the building, leaves
blow and collect at the wall's base,
as if the place was a vacuum.

You gave me this keepsake,
and I treasure it.
I'm not sure what it is, but
when I hold it, I'd
swear the ground shakes.

The walls absorb the leat
of the fire, and a lizard
climbs it, warms itself on brick.
Two kids in the parking lot
will shoot at it with a sling shot.

You gave me this glass bulb,
still warm, and disappeared.
No matter how hard I squeeze it,
things will never move backward.

#42

Stop laughing at me, spiteful bird.

Quit drinking the colors
from my stained glass windows,
flying a rainbow across burning hillsides.

Flying is nothing more than swimming,
and you're a toothless piranha,
singing bird.

Laying on my back in the steeple,
a thought:
the sky turns to deep ocean
the further you lift into the atmosphere,

which makes sense, as my body
floats as if in the Dead Sea.

This sonar song from a drowning bird
as God is revealed as a pearl
in the bed of a shell, reflecting the light
of its own sea foam face of a God to worship.