we stood on a chicago rooftop and aimed high.
we shot the sun and watched it fall.
a sad and holy glow streaming off of every single
northern facade in the city made by men made by god.
one hundred thousand steps from here to there,
a thousand miles,
a thousand faces,
a million trees.
I returned to where they laid joseph's body.
the coat from his father now the ground,
every thread a tree
and shining colors fit for a prince
among twelve brothers.
what's your favorite thing about the holy scriptures?
they asked in unison as foreign tongues
and foreign feet beat the air and,
and,
ground above a flooded plaster ceiling.
that they are holy. and that you are asking.
and what about words you'll never say?
which ones are those?
_____________, _____, _______,
and, __________.
I will never say these words.
It's snowing in indiana in my sleep
and the city that never sleeps
is still never sleeping
and the band that played the final note
as you and i walked
through those
the friends that we never made
are back in their beds (CA and IL, respectively)
and you are around at movie theaters
and at bonfires
and on the back porches
of friends that we never made together
and at home
and at the other end of a telephone line
with someone else
and I will be home next week
or in three months
or tomorrow
or some day after that one.
