the way you slip ’n slide through the night
keeping clear of crosses,
cross your toes and hope to die

you’re rather tarnished
the way you reflect stains
(cuts and tears, smears and blemishes)
and how green you gleam
where you once shone copper

you’re the buoy that sank
and washed up on another shore
unsure of the consequences
yet firm on the stakes

you’re the glass bottle still floating
the message already scribed inside you

yet you’ll never know this
until you smash to pieces
on the hull of a ship
carrying the one true recipient
for whom it was written

six centuries ago.

On windy nights
it always feels like
someone’s coming
or someone’s going

it doesn’t matter where
you are, or who you’re
with—and if you’re alone,
it’s even better:
that shudder, that chill—
you’re alive now, baby
and nothing’s holding you back!
that, except you: yourself!

yet, it beckons:

“come here, my child—
only you and I, you and I”

and do you listen?
do you follow?

of course you do…

how else did you wind up here?

It’s funny to me
(not ha-ha funny,
but I think you
know what I mean)
that we live in
the so-called
‘third’ dimension,
can only (supposedly,
normally) see in
the second, cannot
(truly, fully)
understand the fourth,
yet return (reluctantly,
again and again and again)
to express ourselves most
in the first–

hallelujah.