Saturday, November 25, 2006


I am not of your truth,
(you may not understand this).

the stones
have begun their grinding
beneath my skin.

you may imagine you recognize
the sound they make,
their raw grating, or
the answering resonance
within my bones.

do you realize
their deliberate refining
will not abandon me,
making absolute my flesh,
ethereal my muscle?

I wait.

the rasping timbre
reshapes my marrow.

none of this is certain;
all is belief.

my mouth is full
with honey bees,
my lips their petals,
their hum my song,
- pure fidelity -
or is it innocence?
five thousand drops of faith

from my bones
upon your flesh.

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