My Beautiful Weird, Bent Revolution

Split a block of wood,

–we are there.

Pluck or plant a flower

–we are there.

Read sci-fi, or scripture, through a Summer rainstorm

–and we are there.

The swell of tides and a woman’s womb,

silent-now toys, and night in a child’s room:

we are there.

God, the soul, died long ago, but still

he conducts and connects word and thought,

rag and bone between us ever still.

We are each and every new question today

to yesterday’s final answer.

We are the revelation and the salvation for the

unknown sins that dawn tomorrow.

We are each other, and each other’s savior.

We are the name, and the word, the groom

and the all-father. We are

brother night and mother morning–

sister Buddhist and father time.

And, if we find joy, or sorrow, or luck, or

tomrrow, we find it only in the love in

the spaces between the spaces between us.


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