If I could say

I wish to speak with you. My words fall from tongue into undisclosed quarry. They do
not perish. They simply never reach. They are blind and know not whether rock or God contain them.
I too am blind in that place. Skipping stones over liquid voice. Listening for the *plip* *plip*
of achievement. A sorry distraction. I slip into fluent whispers, acknowledging utterances for
you with every cast step. Losing my shirt, pants, shoes, for within myself I am naked, among
myself I am nude. I know each ripple, they echo among themselves, pressing for my lips. Reaching
for this tongue, to fall once more. Their cries, despairing, crescendo into a gathering pool of
resonate sadness.

…I know…

I hear you, see your words ascript from outside of blindness, from the place we both live.
But knowing only partiality there, as here, where I am fails to reach you. I breath heavily for a
moment and exhale. My lungs press thoroughly the air from me. I descend and rest upon the quarry’s
core. It beats a familiar rhythm . I am lost among the exiled messages, the darkness of the blind,
among the many words meant for you.

For David

He is loved.

He is loved by the sadness in our hearts,
at his departure.
By many hugs led into,
by white-knuckled handshakes.
Tearing eyes, grinning faces,
sisters, brothers,
he is loved.

By the anger in him who struggles
to cope.
Is absence loss?
My dear brother, believe.
He is loved.

By elevating pain in these 7 hearts,
from that dates infringement on our lives.
Time draws out slowly this,
He is loved.

From death to birth anew.
This company held firm,
in gathering to honor him.
And now,
he is shown love,
with kisses and hugs, smiles, shrugs,
and gifts full of meaning.
The night hour receding.
He is loved.

As the spirit of God moves
to rip him from this place,
we hold back the fingers of this state,
and the great hand that grips him here.
For him to be gathered.
Drawn up by he who’s hand is mighty.
He who’s voice resounds
in a call to him, from across many.

He is loved in this,
we let him go.

In July

There, in the early hours,
under bushy clouds,
and blue sky peeping’s,
I breathe easy.

As the cool breeze rustles my shirt,
brushing softly my skin, I find pleasure.

A soft time,
where provocation is quieted.
Where the present minded smile softly;
when chaos bows to gentleness.


One thousand beating feet,
on dust.
There is water there.
With every press, impression made,
the water runs away.

Soles unbound, putting weight,
in every place a pound.
For the rain dust bound,
writhes beneath.

Barreled in dirt;
on every side found beat.
A fine continuity with those feet.

With every rush and churning
turned back,
each step will stamp.

Into silence, muffled,
the waters will shed through
unseen ducts,
to bring awash the countenance of man.