Fragmented Vespers

The ginger ale fizzes early this morning, Vitali’s vodka half-empty bottle on the scarred wood. Neighbor’s doors close, polished shoes hitting the pavement for congregations gathering (Protestant and Catholic alike). A preacher vanishes through shadows, wearing a mask spun from murmurs. In the garden, Jesus hums an old refrain, finding the years piled like autumn leaves—black ink smearing under a wet glass. The sacred smoke of both churches dissolves into this quiet air. Breath is incense lingering. My swing creaks on the porch. Words dissolve.