I am troubled by so much coming and going
though I've watched restlessly the same road for years.

Letters come in languages I haven't learned
with luggage too heavy to carry.

My eyes never returned from war.

I sit their photograph in windows as lost and found.
Even the moon hangs like wet laundry.

I cry for myself.

Lying awake afraid- cross hung.
Teeth grinding the saviors from your eyes.

There were no hands to seize the pitch
of plague cast from those cliffs.
No ears to speak it into.

Pop culture Jesus broken down on the road.
The dead walked in circles around you
until morning yellow and tired- you let go.

Crashing through to the stars night is night-
is night whispering in the creekbones.

So many once to love you now grown thin alone.

Oh, heart! Never again to live and love
in these small hours of heaven?

Birds fly backwards...
seas recede from their shores-- I am a child again.
Dreaming you.

I speak to God. He listens and nods.
Answering no more forever.

Veins collapse like bridges.
Float like sea kelp.

What other business do they have
but to worry their skin of old bananas?

This secret war. So private you dare whisper it.
But you will reveal or conceal everything.

Words are mongrels anyway. Half assed attempts
or whatever is the opposite of otherwise.

First and foremost words are ghosts.
Hovering like shrugged ideas.

Like the whisper of a foreign city that aches in you.

Veins, secrets, wars...
unraveling in the shocking end
of the last sentence on the page.