Where We Serve, Is Seldom The Place We Kneel…

Our house is not without its charm
knocking on star flocks with chimneys
woke with smoke and red brick, disarming
the oblique expanse of nightfall’s whimsy.
life has
too many ghosts in the barn
and never enough 
grain in the silo.
the moons bark
and what looms never lingers.
it escapes… and ever goes
where we cannot.
Our gods are not disposed. 
merely famished.
too many jewels 
in a hammock
of fear… breathing the same
irony. locked in vasty closets
of close up magic
too real to be a dream
because it doesn’t care
what you think
at all.
we persist like a rhythm 
from a distant
pause.
a gasp before the word. just because.