Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet only two of them are mine.

Time is rugged against the grain
of questions falling on white sand.
How come no one consciously believes in
anything except fractured light and filtered water?
He walks on broken heels and birttle bones,
but somehow always steps in time.

My only memory of Jesus
is in the aftermath of a forest fire.
We danced throughout destruction,
and her hollow laughter brought the rain.
She was the beginning of the rapture,
sometimes I think of her and pray.

I got lost six years ago,
on the way to change my name.
I wonder, how could I go missing
if I never locked the door?
Did anything really happen,
or does nothing ever change?

Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet none of them are mine.