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If the road will not rise to reach our tongues,

then let us be puppets and pave roads from

the signs of the mute. & if we cannot express

where our hands belong, then let’s enter one

another with caution, hoping that tenderness

might make the best interpreter. Because

past the yellow tape, we’re really quite lonely.

Investigators are dusting for fingerprints on

the bars of our rib cages, searching for some

one to blame. But God returns to the crime

scene, raises his hands and decides he’ll

hang for it all. Like his marionettes who are

at the mercy of ropes they cannot see. So if

we’re truly empty, then at least let our empt

iness roll on, far past the EXIT signs at the

end of the dark.