I found You one day
on the tip of my tongue
on the fine hairs
of the back of my hands,
on the margin
of what can be heard and seen.
"Make Me real" You said.
"Make Me your love."
And I did.
I pulled You into me
through the flesh of my words,
through the subtle channels
of every hair on my body.
I consumed You like air.
Drank You like wine.
No scripture has written of this
but each moment
my spirit composes You.
You enter through the endless
doors and windows of being.
Sometimes You come through
the dancing molecules of self,
sometimes just as light
through a crumbling wall.
"Make Me Real" You said.
Each day our poetry
surfaces above
the skin of the world
as real as any sunrise.
