Bare
The love of God is not a thing one comprehends
but that by which – and only by which – one is
comprehended.
Christian
Wiman
The
Parable of Perfect Silence
It’s inspiring in an unkind kind
of way the way the body makes open
sores on the cracks and corners
of itself. The heels,
say, or lips.
With an itch sent ahead of itself
it saunters toward a soft pillow
of a blister and sits and sits
good dog that it is until
an eruption of blood until
soft isn’t
soft tell me what body isn’t
at last a mountain range & all her
blemish & split & boil all her crotches
where birds live in arboreal brothels where
offspring are toppled when
the time comes & the nest is
hefted from the twig & the branch
in the first sniff of wind
blade by twig by molted feather
is made again and again and again
it is made finally finally! bare
