The Trees Look Taller When Kneeling Beneath Them

for Sean Hewitt

In the park, evening is tender enough to hide us 
among its darkening flesh. You must think I shouldn’t be here, 

but look, I’m so alone and desperate. I follow you to where 
I do not know, but have put my faith in your hand gripping 

my wrist. The tightness alone is proof of your desire 
to hold onto me, to not let the night engulf me as it does 

the world around us. The rain, like a father, pats us on our 
shoulders, encouraging us to go on. Somewhere, an owl hoots 

and a man moans, both rustling the silence from its sleep. 
When we stop beneath a canopy, the rain becomes 

a mere sound, like the distant traffic cradled into the crooked 
arms of the trees. You tell me to kneel, and I do 

because the park is a temple now, where—unlike the gods 
of the past—we get touched by who we pray to.