another gospel

get over your grace
wash the blood from your ears,
the sustained distortion
of books and hymns
written in the breeze of crows.
a gentle twilight of home,
the early fingers reaching
for a feather grounded
in the simple dirt.

give to me your hands,
wrung free of your god's doubt,
and I will give a compass, knowing fingers.
a cresent of the past remains under each nail.
there are paths on the brighter edge of darkness
to stumble upon, remeber there is
always another way to skate.

see with your eyes until
looking away changes nothing.
the blue undemininished
by clouds or the skin of the moon's
silence. the squalid translation
giving way to the comfort of flesh.