We were just kids,
but we had souls like fistfights.
We slept cold on the concrete,
we kept gold in the wisdom of our teeth.
Everything in the world was perfect.
Wounded,
we would often answer-
"I've seen better days."
Somehow we knew,
among the ministry of our length:
our tiny world was perfect.
You had a tone in your voice,
that owned the authority,
of a poet or a preacher.
We were nothings and everythings,
We would elevate every mineral,
into the diamonds of distance.
In the myth of width,
before we knew maturity and death,
every dimension was perfect.
We drove long sleepless freeways,
to crash in heaven's hands.
We sat on the swinging bench,
in the convent,
and negotiated the authenticity,
and beauty of black roses.
We sat and watched wordless.
We documented every moment,
Through the lens of a looking glass,
while talking trash.
With the weight of tragic gravity,
I found your depth,
another language of perfection.
You and your long in tooth,
You and your whiplash smile,
You and your holy spirit
the "thing" that doesn't have a name, only a number.
Perhaps God is a mathematician, how He equated me to you; and the way you would tell your folks you were going to church, when you would visit me on Sundays.
