i leave church
with
my hands
still twisted into steeples, clutching
the sweaty/faded little
weeds you
brought to me,
(face)
upturned, with those sleepy eyes
crying
and fish
falling down your cheeks
like tears.
joy, this time, right?
pure
joy, uninhibited, raised
high
like the pitch black embers
on
the ceiling
of this place,
twisted roots stretching
up sweetly in my hands...
and
just like that, i leave (with my flowers),
taking
all the pretty petals / and none
of the dirt.
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