Never really crooked
Never really straight
occupying a blissful vacuum
made up of the Gaussian blur 
between frayed moral lines
sweet stucco speckle void of half-baked thoughts and premature prayers, 
high on the milimeterse between lips
before a kiss against a stop sign.

No loitering
no littering
the cliche of cigarettes under a no-smoking sign
Devoid of meaning in the aftermath of post-coital blues
scribed in the margins of an unofficial code of honor.

This is a demand for enlightenment
a command for cement soles to march
shaking the dust from the long-crumbling marble statutes of our fathers
and their fathers
and their fathers
and their fathers still
ages broken by thieves of years
stealing their way into halls of eternity
that we may only be separate men in body
never in soul
never in home
amen.

'Reaching and not touching it, we call it ethereal.'