(Rightness) Beneath Our Feet

i sit in a crowd
i led for years
and watch as they lean,
they're straining to hear
words from my wife,
who keeps her mouth closed,
but speaks with the wind
and cries as it blows.

i lie in a bed
dressed by a queen,
my hand on her chest
to feel how to breathe.
her head remains bare,
uncovered like trees
that crowd like a church,
and blush in his breeze.

i watch as she seeks
a peal in a sea
that's brown from the waste
of preachers like me.
she comes up for air
by diving below
(her gills are her prayers)
like water from stone.