I’ve always wanted church on Sundays, though I’ve never gone,
all that

noise,

The knowing God loves you, just not enough to save you (?), you know,
all that

hoopla,

that spooks.

Though,

Sitting here, I gaze,

Knowing something else is true,
or fine.

I suppose.

The dolphins feed Northbound at 6,
‘Cue the fins,’
Knowing coasts, the mountain lines singing with the sky in stanzas, those motif connect-the-dots upon the staffs, amongst nimbus songs,
Standing, stalled silhouettes negotiating crumble always.
Laughing with them, in this chair, with the fried chicken from the Ralph’s at the Pacific Palisades, where Lizzie once wrote poems too.

Solar flares chill you into embrace and the grains of sands from faraway lands tumble as they dance and flow, into something viscous between your toes,
as he comes to mind (and rubs your shoulders too the way it felt when he held you at night and you trembled low),

(Those hands are gone now),

But there’s your dance, the beach set-up, pomp and circumstance of Sunset deconstruction, that’s kneeling at the altar, Incubator Isle’s empty and you know the water will be good come June.

As His burn sears your neck like a sober kiss,
We peel away and remember:

Body of Christ by way of the 101 to the 405,
Steadfast down Chappaqua after tapping cards at Ralph’s,
onwards towards the Pacific,
church on Sunday’s by way of Saturday,
by way of surrendering to the presences you always knew were always there,
His kingdom your pew,
vice versa, vice versa, Ad Infinitum,

and there’s a 17 minute slowdown on Sunset,
but you’re still on the fastest route.