**The Gospel According to Empty Glasses** The moon hung low like a preacher's tongue, Heavy with words it could never redeem. I walked beneath its crooked blessing, A disciple of bottles and broken dreams. The bartender knew my Christian name. The devil preferred the one my mother gave me. Between them I became a hymn No congregation cared to sing. I kissed the mouth of every glass As though salvation lived in amber. Each one whispered, *Only one more,* Like Judas counting silver in the dark. My house is built from empty echoes. The walls remember laughter better than I do. The chairs sit patiently like widows, Waiting for a man who died without dying. There is a photograph upon the mantel, Its smile has outlived its owner. Dust has become more faithful than love, And silence says grace before every meal. I have prayed with my forehead on cold tables. I have confessed to rain-soaked pavements. Streetlights laid their pale hands upon me, But heaven kept its windows shut. Even the crows abandoned my garden. They found richer bones somewhere else. Only the wind still visits, Reading the names I've forgotten aloud. One day they'll find my coat upon a chair, My shoes politely waiting by the door. The bottle half full. The apology unfinished. And perhaps they'll say He was searching for God In places that only reflected his own face. Or perhaps they'll say nothing at all. Sometimes silence is the only scripture A ruined man can leave behind.
