Why are my fingertips made
Of burnt paper
The kind moth wings are made of
That dance like ballerinas
On the air
When we boys were
Sucker punching
God during communion
The flake rising like snow
Out of the basin
Could’ve been holy water
But it just kept us warm
That night

I would hang your flowered
Heart on razor wire
Outside my window
If I could
Familiar red
Spraying in with the rain
The creases of your hands
Are the fall

Of my father’s hammer when he
Nailed my palms
Together

I want to kiss the wicked ones
Knowing that when I move to leave
The ground will be scolded
By my footsteps

You will remember me
By all my molding failures
When I ball them up
And throw them through God’s window.