Introversion

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?

The Crowd on the MARTA

Shadows don’t know
what
is figure and ground.
Someone should tell them.
They think
they have substance of
more than just absence,
defining themselves by
what
they are not.

131

Today my heart is not lifted up.
Sometimes I lift my eyes unto the hills.
Today my eyes contemplate the sand.

Sometimes I sing until I’m sore.
Today I am silent.

I have calmed and quieted my soul
like a little boy
reaching up to his mother’s hand

like a little boy
silent and waiting

with a mother
who has nothing to say
but stares ahead.

Prayer

Mostly is not all

as evidenced forever,

a fate so apropos,

the emptiness to fill.



The runes of blood tattooed

across your skin remind me

there is nothing more frightening than

God damning, nothing more deserved.



You are my cancer--

the eating of my core,

the tendrils inseparably spiraling around my will--

the vegetable spine that wills against desire.



Intimate finger trace

skimmed over heart textures,

relief and ravine of soul

over finite bone stretched.



Take the colors from me,

the hazing demanding verdict,

the deadline long since passed,

the message given clear:



Abuse is not grace.

Release is not grace.

Forget is not grace.
Cost is grace.

i__g_ne

Is it ok to not want _____?
to recognize that the____________ would
cheapen_________?
is it all right to want to hold on to
_____makes me Black
and ____White
even __________________
and not want the gray __________
____the brushes are washed?

Maybe _______to mulch and _____
the roots of my ___________
and care _______my______ .
Maybe I can't cram an _______
into a ________________________.
Maybe I should be
colorless, ________, tasteless
carbon monoxide
slowly, silently killing _________ in the garage.

Or maybe, John,
I don't want to ________a world of harmony.
Maybe I want to be free
to hate
if hating defines my love.