The Metrics and Religion of Us

We, agnostics in flight, prayed for safe arrivals
to a collage of bearded men with thorny crowns and
eyes holding sadness like porters upon cross.

Departures made us believers.
The scent of love in the warp and weft of cloth,
knitted loom of land, to hover above crop-lined pews
awaiting their own bladed prophet,
skidding across sky, peeling clouds from the rind of earth.

In the wake of cliffs, love stood in shaken distance
while I held you, caught skin of your neck
along with the grind of coffee and seat cushions under nails.
Our bags filled with folded shirts, pressed pants, pleated skirts
ready for the pull, living half packed lives, fisting
boarding passes and travel sized memories,
agreed it was the cost of being whole in the
paucity of our scattered selves.

In the frame of mountains, with our peaks align,
we are glorious.



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