At least, I think it’s a prose poem. I don’t know…it just didn’t feel right in the frame of a poem.
He was a doomed genius with an air of Faulkner about him, cleaning aquariums in the Upper Room, wondering where the apostles went.
She, slightly detached, channeled Vivian Lee as she crossed hot pavement, stopping when the lunchtime whistle blew and the men with lunch pails poured out like ants from a hill to howl and gawk at her.
They met in the most unlikely of places: the grim cottage abandoned by Adam when Eve left him after one too many fights, blood still staining the floors. Together, they unraveled their pain under the weak light of a dying star. They lay on their backs and traced their names in the air, practicing saying them out loud.