How does time fold itself,
accordion-style,
into the back pocket of a southern Baptist pew?
How do two moments
end up back-to-back
when miles & years spread them thin?

Maybe I am asking the wrong questions.

What does my heart mean to you?
Raw, staining the palm of your hand;
how much will it get you at barter?
When you trade our stories,
who will prove the hero?
When that saint is buried,
the past dug up, and
when your breath comes ragged
like wind-shred clouds in the still-cold sun,
is it possible time will match up for the briefest of moments?
What does our memory look like,
crystallized in regret?
Would you recognize it?
Because I would fall for you again.