BLESS

your imperfections,

the berm of pink flesh

they once pulled an appendix through,

the 27 bones in your right hand

and the 27 bones in your left

come together flushing water

from creek—

praise your wild heart

loving what isn’t good for it,

sweet tooth, restless feet,

knees stained in grass and umber,

smell of pin oak, dandelion,

windows left open to rain—

I will sing glory

without good reason.

If there is no one else

I will sing glory

in empty streets, packed

bus stations

in factory towns,

hospital lobbies—

sing glory, glory, glory,

until the word is hot on every tongue.

Photo by Carl.  Words by Andrew.