high mass

By Ryan Crawford

Lord, i am not worthy

instead i paint my lies like my mother paints her nails

cheap dollar-store red & by the TV

               & i pray for what feels like a decade

that you should enter

the second-hand smoke in the living room

               our own private incense

               descending into lines of adoration

because i never know what to tell you in naked air

or whether I can stay

under my roof

for much longer.

besides, smoke is only air

with a few lives between

birth & disappearing

but only say the word

and it'll stay a bit longer

but so will i

               waiting

and my soul shall be

somewhere between the couch

               & town 

healed