How wickedly scars
decorate your face with strange
notions of beauty.
Your tears are muscles,
hinged on wings lunar and solar.
Your touch: life and death.
Best to meet you in
dreams from a poet’s penthan
judgments belched in hell.
In a world gushing
blood day and night, you never
stop mopping up pain.
Soothing the lips of
babes starved in Darfur. Easing
battlefield passage.
How do you fly so
softlywith such heavy loads
of sorrow and hate?
Somehow sensuous – –
this sweet warm sizzle of souls
needing you so much.
Truly addictive – –
whirling through forgiveness like
psalms through David’s heart.
Only God singing
this song of youmakes light a
possibility.