Recall it. It has slipped into the mere
Of memory, lost in the multitude
Of memories, as eyes open upon
The bare morning
And dreams forgot.
I never thought,
Dwelling in the myth of my survival,
That I could countenance the merest hope,
That it was requisite, that it was right
To love you or
By you be loved.
No stone unmoved.
I moved, a revolution. In its wake
Hesitancy, and grief unfathomed, fear,
Guilt--an armory against compassion.
Sharpens its teeth.
Foulest of breath--
The naked bones of the present provide
Greedy incentive; the tireless demon
Swallows the future. Darkness closes in,
Shutting out all
But a vacuum.
There is no room
For thought, or breath, or anything but prayer
An open mouth, a tomb, testimony
To poverty, destitution, dearth. Groans
For want of blood.
The ear of God
Is metaphor; the ear of God, a Man
Of sorrows, was physical; into which,
Perhaps, trickled the embalming perfume
And the love-grief
Of whores and thieves.
Whom He receives
He scourges. This I did not understand,
Believed I was condemned. I felt nothing,
No punishment save my insanity,
No love for God, no fruit from Heaven born,
No bending to surrender all my will,
No will to beg for grace or seek to find--
I threw myself
Against His door.
The ear of God, our High Priest, exalted
Right Hand of God, acquainted with our grief;
Our Savior, God, Intercessor and Lover--
I think I see.
From silence, purgatory pain will burn
The remnants of a heart, or compression
Will force the shards together, forcing blood
From faulty seams.
My silent screams
Heard by the ear of God, and met with grace
To speak, an altogether unforeseen,
Undeserved mercy-- as I will, I love.
This love, which drives me near to God and man,
which drives beyond fear/doubt/pride/shame/despair--
This love, most potent of all miracles,
Is not a farce.