Monday, July 17, 2017

cathedral of bones

what the dogs taste
is the meat of jesus christ
and they spit it out

what the junkies do is beg

but there is no room for symbolism

down these empty streets

in the first purple light of five a.m.

children are dying everywhere and the thought i hang onto
is that my son isn't one of them

i have taught myself
the politics of fatherhood
after fifteen years spent trying
to escape the idea of the boy 
i was

i have built a cathedral of human bones

of meaningless words and angry voices and there is nothing left to put in it

there is nothing to see from the windows
but the flat white smudge of the sun spilling across november fields

beyond the fields are the


where nothing is made

where the dogs grow hungry in the glow of the neon cross

and home is
where you find yourself when there's no place else to run

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