Where the Willow Does Not Weep

                    To follow the stream of blood
to the oasis where love
     falls like wet fruit from the cross
          you took up, is what wakes us;
               what fate’s shameless grace tastes of,
                    as with bruised eyes we look back
at patterns blind skies paint black,

                    crippled miracles hidden
math penetrates, counting on
     your words to ignite our minds,
          to illustrate with flame why
               heaven’s bowl fills with pain when
                    our solitudes meet ’twain lines
of verse silence complains hurts;

                    those same piercing words knives blunt
themselves to ignore, no force
     more powerful than zeroes
          purged of their circular throes,
               prisons of bones our souls call
                    home; this mortal flesh we know
shows no remorse when shed, so

                    by light of constellations
through life’s deserts dawn neglects,
     led like water to number
          unquenched our struggles among
               stars torn from cruciform arms;
                    artworks wet and imperfect,
we unseal first our hearts’ scrolls

                    then close our mouths, wandering
with nude toes through whistling dunes
     to world’s end; this the darkest
          of low places where sweating
               multitudes of possible
                    universes pace peerless
and without friends, uncertain

                    if from hell we have been sent
to populate them, among
     no one and everything
          as with reverence passion
               wrestles to sing; passages
                    we do not choose but keep close
unfold like scrolls our tongues hold

                    and somehow know will go with
you to where ancient prophets
     sow; an apple in our throats
          whose fragrant chorus grows when
               you summon us to come where
                    burnt poems rise as incense
does from pages of ashes.