Horn

The more I watch the news,
the more my country resembles
a biblical city destroyed by fire;

the more I think of those
who spat on the messenger
their God sent them. At the gates

of a temple called ?Beautiful,?
sat a blind man. How many of us
are him? Sometimes there?s no name

for what runs the streets with
misspelled picket signs and hate
as its bullhorn. Sometimes

what?s wrong with this life
could be an avalanche ready
to wipe us out. The only true Bible

might be your open arms. Your name
is a communion wafer on my tongue.
The only true psalm might be

what washes over us while
we sleep, your breath in my ears?
the sound in a shell.