Glass

Sir, you ask, and ask again
and look as though you expect my words
to come with ease; but I am unversed
and slow in speech; I have not the means
to speak falsely, lie, nor confess
my heart, which is a cavernous room,
its corners unknown to me.

If I could describe these darkened drapes, or drab fortress
built of ice-blown stone; if I could run your hands
over the cold climbs and show you rivers dammed, and salt-rocks
densely packed to stop all visitors -- would you turn back?
The walkway has not been cleared in a year
and the snow is solid-packed.

But here, at the window, with you looking in
and I, gazing out, a glance through the glass--
one hand to the frame, fingers grasping
at smooth surfaces. Again, again, you tap the pane --
Which way inside? your lips have asked,
and I try to draw the curtains, but can't,
so I am left to fog the glass.

Faith of the hands....

It is a cloth between my fingers, worn bare
by pulling and tugging. It is fine silk,
smooth to the grasp.

Again and again, I have ran my hands across its length
folding corners at the hem, cool as water, restless;
This scrap will not be pulled from my hands, though I am bid
to put it down. I am sewing,
and the weave has taken shape.

I shall wear this cloak in winter;
I shall wrap its length around me, shelter against summer fires,
against blossom's rain and sleeping rivers,
but its length is a paragraph, and I write on lace,
asking questions of a blank page:
Why bid me to put it down? I cannot drop
the needlework that bends my fingers to the bone;
I am weaving,
I am coaxing threads into shape.

No love can fill a hole like this,
and no love make whole what is not whole
unto itself.

* * *

Yet God's love
is a wholeness
that can only be known
by those who have been made empty.

God knows where you journey, where you reside,
and where He resides in you.

* * *

I see now that nothing can be.
Nothing replaces the space where you paced
back and forth down long halls
and no matter where my words wander, still your words
are lost to the world, wisdom whose only mark
is the deep scar you've left on me.

And God, sweet silence, speak silently to me
of where, from here, my heart shall go. I do not hide
yet wait for the day, for the hour when I shall
resurrect you.

You must take, and take again, take away
all that makes me hesitate, that my steps do not waver
and voice sounds strong, that when the time comes
those who must hear can hear what I must say.

Love sits still for an hour.

here is the desk.
it doesn't open the way hands do.
i have tried every key, but there are too many and
i would ask, but the words waver after a while, hand-written
because i have called for you again and again
and only paper answers pen.

it could be that this is not a room,
and the floor is not flat, and no patterns exist
in the tiles, and i am not seeing anything
that you used to own. i thumb a book of names
found in the top drawer because
you would phone them often, and for a while
they called me instead, asking for you, and i would
explain how their voices permeated your voice,
how we have all become one sound,
talking walls, talking frames, talking pictures
because the picture frames are not down from the walls, they are
right where you left them.

it is always with wolves
and through wild lands
we run, howling no names

yet always seeking.

answer me, echo
the earth and sky, blood on the ground
and warm mist rising in the air.

because this lamp shade could mean anything,
structured glass, cream and brown.
because it isn't sitting on your desk,
the lights aren't off
and you still aren't writing.

because the wall clock means nothing
though you picked the red
to match -- i don't know what -- certainly not ink
or a stained book that doesn't lie open as
i am laid open.

here is the desk.
it doesn't open the way hands do.
i have tried every key, but there are too many and
i would ask, but you never answer your messages. i am still writing
but the words waver after a while, hand-written
because i have spoken of this again and again
yet only paper answers pen.

it could be that this is not a room,
and the floor is not flat, and no patterns exist
in the tiles, and i am not seeing anything
that we used to own. i thumb a book of names
that you keep in your top drawer because
you would phone them often, and for a while
they called me instead, asking for you, and i would
explain how their voices permeated your voice,
how we all became one sound in the end,
talking walls, talking frames, talking pictures
because the picture frames are not down from the walls, they are
right where you left them.