Somewhere--between the last time I smelled rain
and now--are the clanging voices of angels
resounding without love, like rusted brass gongs
ringing on, pushing us into one another's arms.

We all have our false idols molded from gold,
forever confusing the priest with the God.

Right here--between the baritone of the first spring storm
and the last keen of winter--is the silence. Keep the hair
you cut while I slept on. Those were the lies I washed
with false faith, strands catching in my mouth.