if everything happened the way 
they said in catholic school, 
angels in the bows, gods lost,
but never seen, or the higher up
	praying for our redemption,
	wouldn't we all be saved by now?

	such imagination; souls haunted 
with the aftertaste of life,
gowns explode-a thousand white ghosts 
slip into steam, 
a million followers inhaling,
but never quite reaching an answer.

on eves like this, leant with earth 
and cinder, blue palms, the moon,
they might of been discarded 
	or laid to rest 
	beside blood rot and corn,
	slipping slowly from our reach.

	yes, i went to the finest
catholic schools in northern
california, but know this:

it is in the travels we make:
places we pass on highways and fail
to recognize, the neither here 
nor there
	of relationships, detours 
	or oncoming traffic.

it is the life we fail to lead,
scarred by diversity,
lost in a stalled conversation
or glancing away, 
lighting a cigarette, going
	through the motions, 
	but never really listening.

and everything we miss, every last 
detail, the patterns and lines 
of faces in crowds, on cramped subways,
	how we look over it all 
	on this or any other night.

along the lines, something
takes a part of us, makes us believe
that if you pour a thousand confessions
	into one cup, that may be enough 
	to satisfy salvation. 

	christ, we all fall from grace.