Stuck between panes and walls,
here is a prophet poet in a church
so packed I can’t reach what
he says from inside myself
in the rain, though I stay, steal
charity under a strange umbrella.
Geese have been going all fall,
full of themselves up the sky.
Within, white coals seem to hiss
along the floor, heating someone
else’s heart. Even wet, the light
from the real world also is religion
so I suck it in like air till it
saves me under my skin.
–Originally appeared in SWWIM