Wednesday, January 24, 2007


If I pray like a bud in my own darkness,
if I am still and wanting;
then I can feel what the night feels
as shadows undress
their desires together.

When shudders are winks,
when boulders of silence
melt into tangled limbs,
when I am the passionate wound
of Your own womb:
Then I am for an instant
a flavor you choose
for Your taste.

Because I am an empty bone,
the croon of a phantom song,
because I am a hollow drum
for Your beating breath:
I can only become
this shimmering rain
within You.

A falling ripeness,
a drop of You alone
in the darkness
of my bud of light.