Put Out My Hand And Touched The Face Of God

They flew off at dawn towards far-off metal
they only left a trace upon the sea

jet fuel does not sink
enough to bother our brother shells

walking the streets of Rio
with restraint and without

you can not single out
a single sound

the ink barely dried
in a book of life withheld

we always want an explanation
we want the ceiling to hold our hands

we want clouds to shine on our heads
we want insane winds to dry our tears

if not always
we are slapped from a paradise of sorts