The churches are full of gilded hunger, drunk on blood, praying with hands closed. But the pagans pray with their hands open, So I leave the rotten dogwoods, for the shivering willows, and spread my hands out, breathing so deep that my lungs could fit the entire world inside. The kids won’t be alright, but …
And I am cold metal pressed against your skin in winter when the snow takes your fingers and ears and nose and the wolves and doves gather to eat their piece the sky is pale and full the earth swallows the sound And I am that metal again in summer when you lick it and …
I go out into the noir sunrise, feeling the knife’s edge between summer and fall. The pavement leeches my warmth when it can’t find any in the sun. Something has gone cold and we can all feel it, even when we’re sweating. x I hunt for my joy, the kind that sprints at the sight …
Ben Sidorenko's Writing 