The answer is nothing uplifting.

                                                           I’ve lived
better and absolute moments. Promised, with a demeanor of stagnation.
Better or polite moments within the stained glass, all for
that best end order.

                                                           I’ve attended.
Listened to the kind of Man who throws rocks with gossamer thread
and religious meaning.
                                                           I was here, Mom.
                                                                                            See?

Then summer brought something of meaning to movement. Attendance?
He sent un-movement to all of us. He can’t bear movement at all.


God, Your gurney has this man scarred. Mine was all for bits of someone else?
Or trading not-a-little darkening for something constant?

Before, soaked in ‘nice’, I blocked it. Fill us of this cup.
Blood yellow hold. Epic. Lyric.
It soaked in perfect, the clots forming.
Father, that best rest is never.
Father, but here You guard us?
                                                         Father, in your confession, fault.

                         In the end I chose opposition,
more like exsanguination.

Gone are the means to emulate. On a vetted day,
the err of all my sins shot me this red herring body.
So, let me go to assimilate never.

I was shut, locked in. But as the sore closet gains some more light,
now, with skinned knees
a brisk passing. Something for the retreat:
“Forgivers” or crosswalks?
Yes! – of course I choose crosswalks.