fallen verses

A Read Write Poem thing

This isn’t much of anything yet, a free-write a writing without goal or purpose. Perhaps a basis to later be Michelangelo and remove the unneeded. For now, just words:

Above, the stars are like a congregation in prayer, heads bent, taking no notice of our hands stretched across the empty space in the pew, hands stretched low against the cushion, hands reaching…

I mouth the words to some hymn. Some vocalization unrelated. I don’t hear the organ or the voices raised in some sort of exultation. I don’t even hear my heartbeat. There is silence, and the whisper of air as you inhale. What need for God when the numinous is close enough to be touched. And the hands, reaching…

But metaphor fails at this moment. The stars are just balls of exploding gas unimaginably far away paying no attention to the shy couple eating ice cream after sunset in the late spring. There is no  parish, no pastor, no sermon and the only hymn is the cicadas and the crunch of teeth powdering waffle cone. There is no metaphor in the hands. Two filled by elements of distraction, two remain untouching, unreaching…

And yet to dream.

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