{in memoriam}

on the glass face of a still creek;

“oh my people;

what have I done

unto thee…” brown leaves

and lilacs and misery

never enough to reach

that tempered sky.

a room bathed in red.

a window left unfed.

as the pebbles hit the water,

the ripples unfold

in every direction;

sending helpless lilypads, waterbugs, etc.

sailing into nowhere

playing a pitiful sort of bumper-cars

amongst themselves…

Good Shepherd, Epiphany, St. Peter’s

St. Andrew’s maybe, 

—or nowhere

at all; some have utterly

and completely

lost the faith—

at odd holy riverbanks we collect, like

forlorn algae

on the bare, tense surfaces

of the God’s houses that

are not ours.

same readings.

same hymns.

same blessings, same candles, same prayer books.

never the same spirit.


and the prophet named Donna,

and the impossible sachristy, the misbehaving organboard

the apple juice and goldfish cups.

the flattened old seat pads on the pews.

the burn marks

on the walls.

the eyes, wet


the collars and the alms.

the gospel and the epistle, the braddock and the parking lot {but I’m sure I got those wrong}

the bent-over woman in her little office-home.

the water circles on the lectern from where

his mid-sermon glass always sat.

the horrific lemon-piss shade—of my childhood—of the old paint showing through

where the new cream shade was peeling off of the brick.

Evelyn’s supply closets, old

and new.

the nursery.

the honeysuckle farm climbing up the back playground fence.

but now I’m just listing things I miss,

and this is barely a poem;

it’s more now of a

death list;

so then,



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