The train rides over broken Philadelphia, with faces too young to understand pity. Their voices carve rough laughter above my prayer. God, give us a field for love. We walk on a path of knives to the stone that is your foundation. It is in a swamp where your fears hang like moss.
Snakes slide through tears that have lain there gathering.
The rains come every month with thunder that makes your head rattle and break open. It is then that we enter. I hold a light and take your hand in mine. Each step is like both giving up and trying again. Each step opens wounds that bleed in streams of bats squeaking out of us.