My pocket Bible holds my window open,
For the mechanics of this hole in the wall do fail.
This hole in the wall.
...can a hole be square?
For corners sharp like a sliver of Manchego, and
You rip the skin from the tip of your ring finger there, and
Blood drips to trickle to stain the hole there in the wall, and
I wedge my pocket bible to create a centimeter of space, so
I can breathe
Now, and
I can think now
About the homily i heard last Sunday.
Love is patient, love is kind.
The fresh air is a blessing.
Crisp pages full of spirits.
What is a pocket Bible's destiny?
Or shall I write it on my own?