psalms.

I'm rich, some with less might say

and to some degree, warm-hearted.

maybe. it sounds distant. I don't know.

and not to nitpick daydreams, but

from time-to-time I've been known

to lift the head of God from the table

to the level of my eyes as if God's head

had eyes to see me.

my saints are ––

the liquor salesman on the road

and the inner-hatband stitcher

and my sister and my brother

and all my lost loves and loves lost.

if I bleed beneath the barber's

errant straight razor,

some might say I had it coming.

but when I die, the undertaker

will fold my arms, hopefully,

just the way I would have.