Fellowship in the sprig of Spring, late as every night, when the spirits rustle and my own soul is poured out over rocks and water, it gets me believing in the you I make up when I can’t sleep and the last song’s played out.
I stand atop a hill and you, like sand between my toes, filter out of my life with a coarse grace; you may never have existed.
Thus, I recontextualize:
In Charlotte, you held me
In Philadelphia, you lost me
In California, you found me
In Chicago, you make faithful gestures at cemetery gates and pontificate on the Transubstantion of the body.
Why can’t the devil get your public relations?  I’m dumbfounded by the sales figures.

Late last night, early this morning if you’re counting, the cathedral bells rang once, then twice, and the sun rose out of Hades and into the brilliant blinding beauty of Let There Be Light.
The clouds looked like they were on fire and a million subway riders lit their cigarettes;
Today was again, today.
And in that light, falling asleep felt like one more sin to cap the evening’s indulgences.

This is the essential substance of most conversations, and the reason I don’t talk much.
But you make a good point, I have to admit.  If you were real, I’d feel you.
I’ve heard the same thing said of God, and Lord knows that joke’s on me.