tiptoes like grief
up the stairs of
summer’s hot spine,
witnessing autumn’s
addiction to color,
like mysterious gestures
from a preacher’s hand
training the young
to worship the sky
by leaving the body behind.
In the story
they wrote their
own version of,
there were no words
for moments like this
when love’s lips,
waxed with suffering,
melted without malice.
Previously published in Raven’s Perch
