Sunday, December 10, 2006

where your light is born

I need to speak a thing,
something that
cannot be hammered into a word
smaller than the night.
I see a terrible beauty
in the begging bowls of flowers.
My hands are pages torn
from Your life.
I am scribbled over
with an aching clarity.
Your shining darkness
blooms red on my lips
like a kiss from absence.