Mass

Puddles whisper hydroplaning threats to tired daring tractions
In dense gravity brandishing dozens of hot blades; graceful pine slice and violent stab at the dirt.
Ambulance moans drown out tides of static and the white noise from
Hurried slickers and boots.

I chase a full-bodied roast with whiskey in my right hand,
Along her flawless resting ilium, her stomach on my chest, I pull my prints with my left,
And sponge this rich day’s hours
From her pew
And her back
In Rolling Fields, Kentucky.

Our bell tower.

Sunday is not so bad.
Home is not so bad.

Preach.