3-16-14

My lengths and
shadows
are exhausted,

and
lifted up to You
on hills
with every filthy
March that I can bear;

with stick
and
branch
and ballast
gathered
from among grand
trunks,

and toes raised
beneath embers.

Didn't You fill Yourself
with inexplicable dusk?

Didn't You
displace
darknesses, and silences,
In answer?

You looked away,

And stained the years
with
long acres
of safety glass
woven among
fossilized corn
stalks.

You pulled up Your words

And left me,
my deserving it,
underneath
the years you
wrote upon my face.