The Watch --

if you have it in you

to line the box

with glitter, I

will wrap

it for you

with my

trembling hands --Our own

package

bound for glory, the

heavy

weight

of an unknown quantity

at an

unknown space, here

maybe

deleted, may-

be

cherished

as the sentinel gift of the sniper,

his crosshairs fixed

between our eyes --

*

what she sees

if I have something to say it will be delicate

it will be timed and placed to your breathing

as feeling forgiven now infinite

surging in a shallow night stealing

across our brows the icon holding still

with pleasure and pitched warnings

at our feet to bend there to our will

in wild unmoving storming

skies – We are here, we are belated

with birth, with the time taken

to find ourselves denatured

and vilified, fragrant

with desire; We are the womb-fed

children straddling the air, Naked

to our Own purposes here Shed

of all Pretense – We are glazed

with the terror of knowing, our eyes

slivers of your enduring

faith, these upturned ironies

of our cherished longing –

*

Sacred words –

tense, this, the allocation of our Lord, he

who would hold us up in fire and brimstone

there to mold our character – to set us free

from fear we who can survive on faith alone

waiting, waiting – there is a structure in your mind

that skids across the ice, lightly, winding around

our heads – Our hope for rapture blind

to you – who come here within a certain sound

enclosure of spirit, a groveling at your feet

while we give alms -- break bread --

we will be ready when you come, thief

in the night standing by our bed

to whisper, head held low,

“If it was not, I would not tell you so.” --

escape –

certain of a new terror and fed to the wolves who have nothing to do with it

i glide through the night on highblades and sudden precision only wanting

to be near you there where i can sense your presence by the scent

of your perfumed wrists and hold tight to your powerful embrace as you

cry it was not me, it was not me -- it was someone else, she said, an errant

god who had grown tired of his disciples and gone wandering in the wood

looking for fungus and bark to sustain him -- When is

a square not a square? When it is a circle, you suppose, you, the

wicked one gone astray through multiple thunderclouds

holding on to the legend of the white buffalo-woman -- Where

can you hire your Sisters to hold you close to the fire

as you relent, unburdened and restrained, here, at last to

sustain your marrow surging --

*