with a graceful staircase winding down like a backbone with vertebrae

never tremulously ticked by sliding fingers

tripping along dimpled ridges, your skin is someplace I haven't visited in quite some time now

in words

in the snow we clustered like monks and our dieties are seperate and scatter and we jettison private prayer

which gets lodged in telephone wire

stray bird nests

the tangled branches of a windowsill bonsai

some get to heaven and puncture the clouds and reverb back with a blessing that thrums through some people the lucky ones

I count my blessings

which is the number of times

I was ever with you

no notes of jerusalem or pages of prophecy

just your kisses in all their simplicity: holy.