Us; In the Valley of Hinnom

Help me take my hands from my hips some time

And let my flowered fingertips breathe

Because they carry a lot of weight

Like ‘you’re my baby.’

And that’s the shirt that you kind of like, that I always like and

You can’t wear it - or them – partiality always screws things up

But we can wear our modesty and our pride:

All buried in the valley of Hinnom.

A lot of the time, we’re hearers only

Deceiving ourselves

And hearers we are.

And tasters. And the cold, Shallow Dip.

To Us:

Lament!

And stop fortune-telling.

And be meek.