Bloody Sunday

I bring the broken flowers
Picked from the side of the neighbors road.
For the altar of my hippie church.
Where we pray to the God of our own misunderstanding.
Before I make an Irish exit
In French.
The glass against the album lyric you framed
Is appropriately cracked right down the middle.
I like it better this way.
And I don’t visit the houses we shared
Without first calling ahead.
Without first crossing my heathen heart twice.
Without wiping the mud of Hellbenders passing from my feet.
Such are the precautions I take
Against offences of the soul.
As I go I recognize these statements should tell a story.
But I am not done rewriting the past just yet.