crimson flutters down in
beads in rhythmic hymns
tangling themselves like slipknots
or messy hair on Sunday afternoons
when sunlight floods living rooms and porches and drips off shingles

it continues down a pale forearm
in patterns
neat straight lines like lines on asphalt;
uncrossable.

when the hymns cease -
silent psalms begin and bathe in cold streams.
streams turn to lakes,
still, and warm as death.