***
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
emptiness?
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
high
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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