It feels like church, a song of contrition, a tale of perdition, memories of human examples.
I was running fast, the fields were full, it was dynasty;
we found laughs, buried in whips, hickory sticks—so far into a forgotten future;
losing courtesy, the pains of a gentleman, the penalty of chivalry.
It feels like church: podium and pews, elders and youth, preacher and deacon.
I can’t explain leaves, I can tell origin, but I can’t prophesy about leaves. This is life—looking for new ears, old ears are familiar, blasé, sipping truths.
I walk the lines of leaves. I crumble waterless leaves. I pluck plush leaves. I look to their trees, if to tell of origin, a 100-year-old cypress, rings inside, I hear they tell a story.
It's morning simplicity. It’s baptism pains. We might take belief seriously.
We might abide by faith.
We might become insufferable.
We must watch out for segues.
It feels like church is ending: hugs, cheek-to-cheek, palms held, religious language: “God is good!”
Ham hocks, neck bones, cornbread, greens, beans and pies. It feels like church.
I was with spirit, traveling downhill, filled with transgression, outwitting my image.
There’s something to feeling perfected—in a world made to feel ugly.
