I am running out of reasons
to wake up, but rituals
are the only sure things we have left:
A kneeling on the floor, an emerald
where the cross should be. I’m close
to discovery— braided hair,
just the right amount
of Cholula in the air, and listen
to Mariah Carey on a loop.
If she can’t bring me
transcendence, then who can?
I count the bricks I walk, keep
an apple on the front porch. I avoid
trees, Dorothy, seek electricity
in the plains during a thunderstorm.
The Air Is Cold In The Church This Morning
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