when I wake I feel further from him than ever. but the dream continues.
I sit third or fourth pew from the altar with my brother. the priest is a talkshow host and quick with jokes to draw us in and out of scripture with one-liners. I ascend to the lectern and read a passage for the faithful: some prophet's vision of the future when the earth decides to open and the cities all fall in. my brother leads the prayers of intercession between tears that won't stop smudging ink down the pages. I know it's because of the kids and death of human conscience, and take the stairs to hold his hand. groans from the congregation as children lead reluctant parents to leave. we sulk back to our pew and let the priest play his parade to rivers of blood at the door.
the clouds draws me a fool for fun. man of the year riding Sydney road in the rain. clothes on the window to dry into night. all out of questions and smoke to conceal. heavy for a moment long enough. the kettle's getting cold.
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