what drives him

pricks on with deathlong fingers

to down in iciest blood

wound and weald

as if creation itself

were his?


because it is not:

is it a mark

a stamp

to make upon it

that larger is than the writing of



these wounds and weights

not by distance bound

settle roughly coarsely

down in heaviest hearts

raw still from

cold colorado winds


raising barriers great and


that stand rudely menacingly in the path

of love (i want to try)

and his mostly gaping holes and earthly blanks

are met only

on the other side


Author’s note: i was deeply saddened today to hear of another shooting at a university. i can hardly bear the news without weeping. Please, friends, pray with me that this behavior may be put to rest, and soon.

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