Why Philosophy Is Not Boring

At the edge of the red church,

its vast sides turned against one another
in an architecture of long angles and eaves
dark shadows and leafed-in Sundays

where the neighborhood slowly awakens
to owl sounds and church bells breaking in
softly on a million tiny sleeps

full of dreams written down with a pencil
the dark lines little stove pipes pointing
at the dying sky you can see from the roof

where ideas like language and belief
were tossed around easily – things I actually
would love to catch but just can’t seem to see

in the fading light of the alley that reflects only
night in the broken stained glass of windows
on their ancient yet visible hinges

like fingers with lips and clothing in piles
that we land in only every few nights
together alone with this secret so close

to an outer wall crowned with glass shards
some rotted out but others still sharp like bad fins
in the good dream I keep trying to have,

you kissed me.