Wet Snow. Sick House. Week Six.

There you lay bright as death
cold and blue
Angelic eyes cracking the window
you move
our eyes cannot touch
yours are closed and mine are open
Its no fair exchange for you to look out and let nothing in
you fall again
your messianic pose strewn across the madonna couch
The snow fell but it didn't stay
Somehow it turned the couch and you and everything blue.
These sham winters and false springs leave us could and wet.
They freeze our hearts and melt our heads.

Sitting in the back at Trinity

Little shrieks punctuate the constant humm
of infants mewling and puking in their mothers arms
little damnations landing on wrists
little salvations entering mouths
These have tasted the heavenly gift
These rejoice in singing all the more
they can't sing parts
they spill juice
they shift in their seats
they push their sisters
They unite us to Christ
Become like the least of these and enter rest
These little cries are the sounds of the covenant
They reverberate of the roof of heaven
They batter down the doors of hell

Goodwill, Laundromat, Basement

There’s a place I go in hopes that giants have died.
That I may plunder the treasure which they have cast beside.
To clothe from the cold my pale Polish hide.
And in style and comfort to the sunset I’ll ride.

There's a place where I take my stains.
Where I take my clothes for a spin and a drain.
With cameras and guitars we tickle our brains.
Then we leave in silver trains.

Heavy on my feet I land
In the room where I cannot stand.
We play at cards and food and band
me and the friends I find so grand.