blasphemy,
is no doubt my intention  
for every word I add
will be seen as profligate  
there are no blanks to be filled,  
but I will fill them
with guilt--not remorse  
(or neither, or both)  

for sale,
the dead sign
hanging in the window  
keeping the sun out,
the whispers in  

baby shoes,
ethereally white,
never to be bronzed
or filled with awkward
pink feet, never to be
outgrown or passed down,
with a few sublime scuffs,  
to a brother


never worn,
left sitting on
a sky blue sheet
awaiting the feel of feet
stared upon, with rapt attention
by four faithful, faithless eyes  
that would wait while words
of comfort  fell on deaf ears
but never be filled with tears  
as long as the sign read
for sale  

blasphemy,
I have committed thee  
along with he who convoluted hope, with
six bold words