Yet the wind
Of the holy
Stretched
Across the face
Is pain,
Oneness divides
To separation
Once again
Like it cannot be
Content
Without a candle
And a mouth,
And the rancid smell
Of fire gone out
The ambrosia
From the bees.
We can choose
To leave
This heaviness
Behind,
For the divine
To chime the wake
Of its vibration --
But some flesh
Calls to be eaten,
Some sacramental
Sacrilege
Beckons would-be pilgrims
To the place
Where life
Is a mistake,
Passion's to be wasted,
And every decision
Is not only wrong
But in need of
Dark correction.
And the warm rooms
With their flickering lights
Begin to seem
At least a refuge
If not a home.
