Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

The Grace

By your grace, my bound tongue loosens;
you unfurl your closed fist and there:
my animal eyes swallowing tears
and dilating for the seam of light.

We can reconfigure, you whisper;
your voice a thread of rational love.
It sews an opening for me to pass through.
We can let go and hold on, you whisper;
your voice a glimmering aqueous faith.

Oh see, you say, all that you need
is alive and living in the world.

I am not your completed self.
I am not your working out.
I am not your closed circuit.
I can be your jumping off,
your reaching out,
your open growth,
your tendril charged to the sun.

All of me releases you, so you shall return.
Your skin will become a pyre
of living parchment,
of sainted joy,
that I will burn to touch.

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