A procession of cars.
Church bells toll as sparrows sing.
Their morning spiritual sits heavy on my chest,
disintegrates my bones,
extinguishes tongues of fire that dance above my head,
silences mad utterances that rattle my teeth.
(I remember honey-laden bees,
fragrance of blooming shooting stars,
twilight lost in Irish locks,
and dissonant bells of church
in Sunday morning rain.)
The procession continues
towards the Tabernacle of Saints and Sinners.
(And to think, light of my eyes,
that once, my love was yours.)