19 October 2010


The pulse is beats across
the hand with a wooden rod.
The lungs are sponges for baptismal water
pressing across the chest.
The rumblings of meaning are slight taps
on the shoulder of a stranger—
“Could you please remove your hat?”
The voice of thunder barely rustles
the re-sewn veil.
Grace is a gift lying broken,
rocking back and forth,
on the floor
after the party.

How can I be real to you
when every word is digitized?
How can I climb into your heart
when my legs are scabbed and atrophied?
How can I be what you need
when all I worship are words?

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