you are not my religion, but i love you.

my palms are printed
with ugly thank-yous
and other forgottens


saliva-licked words
wiped on salty skin


o, fair intention!





i've been neglecting my prayers at night,
memories cooling quietly into grey smoke.

lately i've been recalling you as you were,
waiting patiently to know you as you are.



there will never be gold hung around your name
in the cloisteresque recesses of my chamber-heart;
no filigree spiraling into cold disorientation,
dizzying itself up pedestals to false heavens.



instead, you tread the earth with me.



and my rosaries remain untouched these days:
those heavenly strands of pearled hopefuls,
all i had saved and savored with a certainty
that my pious diligence would be rewarded.



barefoot patience and hymns of warm-melting laughter
make for better sanctity than hard worship ever did.

nirvana hangs no farther from my hand than your own,
though i know you are not candidate as my inner peace.





weathered thank-yous,


those unneeded words
falling ever silent


fading from my palms
and trailing in dirt
to forgotten idols.