By Ryan Crawford move your scapular tongue to the rhythm of a fugue the next time i won’t shudder a prayer on pew-worn knees or lead your gun only moments away from that grand exit when she is burning and you are alone but not so un-American and you can look at me without only laughing for those couple seconds when incensed bullets are between newer lives instead we can share a religion what you would call a lesser faith and burn newer charcoals and rosary bea