slowly regressing in the small violence of suburbia —
an inward coalescence,
neighborhood of small scattered asteroids.
We rewind our story,
we rebuild our town.
We undo the slow-motion implosion,
the slow-dance of falling in one-by-one —
and then altogether,
like comet showers.
I’ll write your name on the pavement
and pray for subservience,
asking for God in the parking lots,
in the graceland of a summer afternoon skyline.
I can almost hear the angels.
I learned to love once
like i was young once.
It is learning to build a sandcastle
on the edge of an ocean.
