Father Justin

Leaves ground into the curb,
A wet, black mold.
Pixilated fog spawns mail boxes first,
House fronts, gray cars in driveways.
Pressing forward at a run’s pace.
Behind glass coated every
Three seconds in holy water.
A monk’s song bouncing between ears
In a metal capsule crawling through
A cloud on a carpet of brown leaves,
Bird food and puddles. On to see
Father Justin. For salvation.
A sacred word. Crinkled hands
Smoothing rosary beads.
Order born from random lightning,
Amino acids, reproduction.
Sacrifice and doubt pressed
Together in a mold.
Against the curb. Decaying.


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