Sundays

It's one of those sentences thrown into the middle of a page, the kind no one remembers reading when they've finished the book. I feel a little sorry for it (and perhaps for myself, too), wrapping itself up in a strange mixture of muffled steps, a roomful of dancing kids, beignets heaped with sugar, and trees falling in a forest, debating whether or not their fall made a sound.

Tonight Joshua is singing about holes in his pockets just her size ("But I think everything is gonna be all right--yes, I hope everything is gonna be all right...."), and I lay out my mind an empty sheet of paper but all I can think is

if perfect love casts out fear,
then why
am I
so scared?