the belly of the chapel was a subway tunnel,
fire of the holy funneled through your mouth
and out as electricity that swept up the pigeons in the rafters
in a whistle that ran along our leg hair and propped up the spare pieces
that were too heavy for our own faith to hold up

the windows were propped open to cross holy ghost streams
through the rudders of the pews that siphoned wind out of our canary cages
into the blood pump of the baby tugging on our heart

let him breathe easy
let him know goodness and truth and not be hungry when he hasnt eaten all morning and this preacher’s rattling on and on about the future of this denomination and all the baby wants is nourishment but the worlds too life or death to sustain life so theres death on our tongue like ash

and then we crash headlong through some skylight
and theres glass sprayed like sea water around our feet
and theres you on stage and me praying that you’ll stay
and you and I are forever drifting

somewhere far away
Think you've hit a really sound lyrical quality to your expression, like you're far more confident to trust how the words come out rather than thinking too much about technique.

Do think stanza 3 suffers a little with indiscipline however, it runs a little too full of ideas that needed a little more structure. Inconsistent punctuation also takes the reader out of the zone.