When the reprisals of our souls,
too young to love, too small for pain,
repeat their mistaken ventures into
the uncolored light of mistaken journeys,
then it is that the walls whisper
their ghostlike songs of ever after –
sighs of the imperfect.
* * *
Here there are no endings,
only endings of old beginnings
that transform by a refusal
to submit to the indentured servitude
of the hollow and broken,
preferring instead the ancient newness
of Cistine handshakes.
* * *
In the cowls of earth, her ears of stone,
hear fathomless time, tonsured and teased
from her birthplace deep in
embowelled truth whose Name Is.
Encompass within yourself this
faceless sojourner only now
learning his name.