Amiss A Week A Month

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I sit in front of you,

watching sparks peel

away, carried to the bottom

of my blues. Not my eyes,

but workout pants. I did not

workout in the traditional way.

No walking, jogging, or running.

I sat on a rocking chair, leaves

blown by breath to join cloistered

color.

Gold.

What I am told,

no sung, I am worth

more than. Today,

these leaves communed,

hushed to the ground as I

smiled and laughed childishly

with a distanced friend over Jesus

being a ghost. He’s as the real

as your flame warming the pain

down within my belly. I can’t look

at you seeing fury. I can only wonder

if Moses taking off his shoes

on holy ground, slackened

his muscles as my joy falling

prey to your dying wishes.