i have given up the notion of holiness.
i no longer write about feathers, or the taste of gold,
i've stopped praising the stinging heat of a halo.
when i was younger, i wrote poems and stories closer to the fantastical, with angels and stardust, stories with beginnings and endings.
i find myself now only capable of writing love poems for motels,
for soft snow and rooms with green furniture,
sonnets for street lamps, a short story about bloodstains on a carpet.
there are no endings in real life;
nothing is ever complete.
"human beings are constantly shifting beams of light, neverending light, holy in our imperfections".
watch the muscles move underneath the skin and tell me we aren't just animals.
oh, how the skin stretches over the ribs when you reach over yourself,
how the tendons in the forearm move when you make a fist.