how the world ends
and all my disclaimers
won't matter
and all my gratitude
that is left inside
will become dust
because on the plate of you
God
I have left all my old poems, a brick for each intention
a wisp of hair for a swamp of love
I have wanted only you
but wandered
like a blind man
in a temple.
all the while,
in Your House
with dirty shoes.
I have gone on and on
picking at the bones of my intention
gnashing at the carcass of colluded bone
bullied improvisation
and tender percolations of love, tested by my own hulled beat and stilled cantankerous blows
I have waded into the jungle on bended knee
like a superman
whose cape has long been woven
in his mind
but goes unseen
by the brier and the brush
I have slept in your glass holy water
and still
wanted my own dam pool
My Love,
if I told you now, all my excuses for bedlam
and crises
and laid down at your feet
each malnutrition and elbow shove
and sold all my pertinent curtseys
and flamboyant yearnings for paper wings and a Hathaway smile
would the grocer notice
I had been to God
this morning?
or would I still bump into walls?
It is your love
which makes me even wonder,
Beloved
I Love You
Your Beloved
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