Everything I say is true.
I sit in front or in the back pew
among the heavy smokers and their beer carts.
My feet hurt but it has all happened as said, not imagined,
where the back of the hair is parted,
And locks change color among the forgiveness.
Large people, flowers, people with headaches,
aspirins for a rough week, volumes of Hopkins speak,
there will be eight, there will be light.
Passion stands up for thanksgiving.
Its name notwithstanding well known.
Take a picture today, but it is not my name I came to sing.
Trees grow in the window glass.
Silence grows too. Collections are quiet.
Nobody wears a coat
I get in trouble sitting at the back with the smokers’
fantasies of life lived happily after nosebleeds
when people hold hands.
Andrew Reiff is involved in the likeness of the native and the captive, one of the early degrees of surfactant hydrocarbon reduction. He has published “Angel Standing in the Sun” in Penny’s Poetry Blog.