Words hang from the cross,
I will not worship them in your poems
as they fall from your tongue into my
open hands,

I must save them!
(or be denied the vacant-eyed skull of Horatio, mocking
the corpse flower that never blooms)

I offer seven veils of blood to resurrect
the dead that stones may speak of
cause and effect, light the light of a thousand ships
homeward bound across this sea of grace
lifting to my eyes

but let your words fall where they may
now, my Beloved
I have hope

we must awaken the steely dawn of wooden idols
with Esau hands,
wrestle with dark angels for the land of Canaan
and chain puppet strings to windows in the sky

a deluge of words makes but one poem
we do all this because we must love.