The truth: I’ve spent too much time imagining.
A different earth, where?
This isn’t all what we were. All I was. Nights when
I forget the winters.
Where I grew up. Darkness—silence stayed untouched.
I forget the garbage bags
of clothes my grandmother bought for us kids
from garage sales.
Bargain bins. Then wet summer air, clouds above me.
On the news there is another drying lake. I chose
to love again.
Another man. We cannot find the end of our story.
Stories to parse.
Through language like some distant memory.
Like we own it.
I look up the word Gospel to feel weight.
-spel meaning news, stories.
& I know we have plenty, always more to come.
in Old English, people mistook their word for good; gōd
to be God. Gospel traced
to some good news, more god stories. That’s all. That remains.
Tonight, there is the man
& me. Bitten sacrament thighs. We love this body.
So much we have indulged.
To have outdone us. This time again. Like slipping
on a T-shirt that housed
someone else. To feel sheltered through old sweat
stains. A stranger
produced inside it, before I did. Before a kid from school
It was their shirt all along. Ours. Before my lies. Before my
There is no God-awful. To hold without engulfing.
Warning waxed. Leg after itchy leg under sheets
warmed by him & me.
There are things we have. To worry about come
The truth: I too mistook goodness to be God.
Was the other way around. Some days I still forget.
I refused to wear that shirt again. How many of my belongings
have been belonged
in perpetual motion. This old earth. Stories & news.
I kiss the man
in pursuit of being. Warmed. How many bodies can wither