Like a block party with smoke. Little godspittle showers the hair on our arms. My hair still smells like burning church. I know folks brought under the grace of some fog there. I know folks joined in word and deed there. I know the love that won't falter without an altar. Holy Holy Holy Hiss on the house when a steeple calls out: the AM static of a thousandth rescue mission. Your lashes were fastened, fascination came second, and the minutes were mashing up symbols with actions. My Is bled all over the page, and I couldn't cross my Ts without a prayer and a bowed head. In the dark, back to ark, my feet were bare. There was gla** in all of the parking lots.