the hand with a wooden rod.
The lungs are sponges for baptismal water
pressing across the chest.
The rumblings of understanding are slight taps
on the shoulder of a stranger.
The voice of thunder barely rustles
the re-sewn veil.
The fragrances of meaning
are absorbed in the fabric of speech.
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?
