Alone, unable to sleep,
I watch the sun burst behind the church,
and a black tapering steeple
appear to part the morning sky,
tonight's night present, correct,
and eager to add to my darkness.
Stark trees, bronchial branches nest clogged,
rattle and spit their spray of birds
at the sore sky;
phone wires flick from flat-line,
as wind smacks and slaps the puddles
that slowly form diesel bruises.
Grass strains its tire track stitches,
while God's eye glides the church roof,
stops at the rifle-sight cross,
trained on little left to kill.
even the place hurts,
is ill without you.
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