What I have left are
gardens and golden circles,
the voices of these people stained with
an answer prayed in the wrong way.
They try but can’t yet hear
the wind coming in the distance like the sea.
Thank you for building me so in the sky that I might
roll beyond the window and
into the next color of this life,
gracing a more delicate view.
Down the street I see patterns—high beams
it took this night
to give it all quietly.