Morning, in the Church Parking Lot

Trees scald sharp skies blunt blue with the ruthless unbending straightness of their trunks

Nothing churns the stomach like damp, twisted sheets of an abandoned unmade bed

Sweat glistens the body in the chest’s crevices a plastic film wrapping limbs during relentless hours throbbing black

The vast, hollow sanctuary a marble tomb trembles with emptiness with unforgiving memory echoing in its barren chambers

Leaves, pine needles do not flutter or sway refuse the wind’s comfort In their drenched stillness they weigh heavy on the mind that, in its frenzied clenching, its crumbling glass shards, rages at their obstinate tranquility

The body’s trunk lacks roots to hold us firm to ground us in soil

affix us to the earth

Instead we skate perilously on its surface