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There was a sky here, a heaven once but no one can remember what she looked like, only lines and colors, like the haunts of dreams still fresh. Still, we talk about it: blue in the abstract, red in the concrete. we speak a Language of shapes.

to me it is good if the sky is foreign because now we have liberty to build it newly from scratch: mine is pink and grey but yellow too / soft like the warm glow of first light as a cricket serenades the evening and i feel my heart breaking in a past life. how beautiful to exist in a moment that belongs only to itself.

the last time i was in Love it rained,

on the way home I count

three churches on the same block / in god, vanity is virtue: a desperate need to be seen. this we have in common, I think, because I too beg for worship, unconditional love. my disciples will teach you. our prayers are uttered so urgently our tongues have whiplash.

though, who listens? to voices like ours, long long after the sun has fallen out of us—

the sky? I think the angels used to live there once but I’ve never seen a castle in the clouds. sometimes a storm, once: the lightning danced and threatened but in the end, it didn’t want to stay. not unlike fathers (men & god). I dream of shapes who talk in circles,

blue in the future, red in the past: my mother forgets to give birth to me. it is a good thing I am stubborn. summer hums a hymn and the choir goes quiet. the sky readies itself to pour because it knows my heart needs drama to revive.

she uses to live here, but not anymore.

no one can remember what she looked like, or her Name, only that

she used to be (beautiful) but only up close, afar: she would melt into shapes and shades, ashamed,

red in the hands, blue in the face.