Wrinkled hands will chatter hymns on a bustled sidewalk where the blind can nearly eye an escalating steam, the burning energy from indiscernible means and still the echoed singing is sung song too far gone.
“No thing to some thing.” She omitted the return. He was waiting for it, oh so patiently.
Echoes wander round while deep into my knees the splintered bony compact from moonlight-late retreats and chewy marrow screaming from in between your teeth. We chant a near return, a spine-tingling scene of empty pews contemplating Friday chapel peace.