Rubric

To your crucible 
add these things:
sky,
the color of tears
earth, 
bleached of blood 
bone, 
returned to ash.
Mix well and Heat 
with whatever fire is at hand.
Wait for rebirth.
Serve whatever God makes sense.

Strangers

Some are beautiful, 
but not serious, 
blessed with warmth 
but not fire.
Some stand in shadows, 
at turnstiles, 
in the switching yards 
of desire.
Some haunted,
Some homeless,
lost between wars,
plying their trade
in dark metaphors,
coupling in alleyways,
ghostly and white,
dressed in shreds torn
from the curtains of night.
Some short, unadorned, 
utile and plain,
wrapped in history, 
myth and pain. 
Some, tall as willows 
that bend or quake,
trapped in cliches 
they cannot escape. 
Some can imprison, 
and some can set free.
Some are for counting,
and some for mystery.

No Rest

There is no rest 
in rest, no peace 
but in motion
no journey
but this movement 
toward,
this dry voice,
thrusting outward 
beyond our borders
scratching into 
the white space, 
on the white sheets, 
bodies falling,
naked, hot, enrapt 
and gasping,
folding into the caesura, 
waiting for the word,
for a sign 
to give our love 
direction