Searching for the anchor

by Daniel Ames

green eyes and brown hair remind me of Alabama
when a long sheet of rain took the pain from her forehead
and assuaged the cankles by the cactus of doom

God is on the run and the apostles have nowhere to go
maybe Tuscaloosa but the coyotes drink hard there
and the prostitutes rape the johns using poker chips

conflagrations sound like nuclear submarines on the beach
and the conch shells spread the gossip of Christ
the Lord helps those who are hapless at the free throw line