There is no danger in desiring to be healed[.]
          —Saint Francis de Sales1


Thinking about you today, for literary
purposes only, I don’t know that
my heart is a fitting place
for you to dwell, whether you
take up hammer, scissors, or needle
doesn’t matter, won’t do it justice,
can’t repair what’s already gone to
hell, what it needs is healing

the craftiness of my own cunning
has prevented from ever happening, we’re
over, or so it feels, this
seeking you without first removing like
a rib what subdues both of
us with its confusion, too used
to being used to be moved
to prayer like a box of

bones or another form of ossuary
(the mouth, coffin as it is
for enamel relics of fake ivory,
an empty treasury of hollow promises
echoing like false gold, digging the
holes in which we bury our
Selves) for a metaphor, follow your
laughter into the desert, great things


do not depend on us, I
feel ill-formed, incapable and unworthy of
approaching so purposefully, so personally, so
intimately, so inwardly, our lord, perpetually
filthy and hurting, wholly undeserving of
conversing directly with a form at
once like us, a soul wearing
rags of flesh, yet beyond our

world, that two hundred per cent.
(fully divine, fully man, at once
god and mortal), seems to me
some sort of metaphysical sleight-of-hand, reminding
me of how music royalties, interests
in the rights underlying songs (regardless
if hits, deep cuts, or flops)
are split by collective societies the

same way into two incomprehensibly comprehensive
parts, two whole halves of intangible
wealth (potential or actual), calculable as
one hundred per cent. composer(s), one
hundred per cent. publisher(s), and for
once, I am without words, an
author without a voice to sound
my discord singing to myself, alone.

1Saint Francis de Sales, “[Chapter] 37. Oppressed by Pain” in Roses Among Thorns: Simple Advice for Renewing Your Spiritual Journey: Edited and translated by Christopher O. Blum, published at Manchester, New Hampshire by Sophia Institute Press in 2014; page 68.