Sunday, March 29, 2015

Palm Sunday

Gazing heavenward,
blinking my broken eyelaces,
my snapped shoelashes.
Working my worn, greasy tongue,
my cracked rubber lips
to mutter some obligatory psalm.
Vultures plummet toward
the trunks of the hydrants
and turn into sparrows in the sunlight.
Every telephone pole a crucifix,
every traffic light a prophet.
Suspended from the wire,
black against the virgin sky,
I twist, a crimson pair
of Converse All-Star high tops.

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