If you're going to walk on the white.

I've been seeking truth in several areas regarding the Lord and His love as of late. I've felt pretty cushioned by the Holy Spirit this last month, like I have pillows on all sides of me. There's really no other place I want to be right now. I know this poem is loosely tethered, but my heart is very much in this place. Trying to aim for truth.


If you're going to walk on the white
side of the curb, by the gutter,
and search for deader plants
behind the sewer grates, slowly,
then I will wait. I guess.
I halted in this frothy glasshouse,
damp
before it was silent, but still
deadening in the weight of
its sliding sheets of pale
or thin light. I sat between the vines
to be in the state of the glorified
libraries and the tilting cathedrals with their
fallen doors, the basilicas
that have torn down their
own wallpapers and repainted
curious images of antiseptic gods
on insubstantial sanctums. We
could always see through
the fake beams the modern chaplains
innately rooted like boorish
trees that snake through the Amazon.
Looking up the curved, impressionistic
dome toward the keynote core that
leveled the force of the angels, you
told me of how it used to be, how it really is -
deep - rumbling down through the stratums
of the ocean and latching on to both
sides of the continent (and we are covered
still). It is an exquisite following.
The smell of the hickory pew
and melted candlesticks is what
I remember the least.