My hand strokes the deep blue wall, soft as fleece,
Blue as the curls of the woman five pews up.
Is He counting my prayers or my sins?
My hopes or my days, my fears or my pride?
Religion was a good seed in season,
But it broke like the light against the brick.
But He's soft in Spencer's sight,
Fat and soft as Santa, not burning in holiness.
I remember the touch of the back wall,
Glass walls and warm mornings, soft as faith.
His house, but not Him.
I remember all the interesting heads in the pews in front...
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