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
**Hemingway's "shortest story ever written" was: for sale, baby shoes, never worn