When the dark hand reaches out for the light
and the bright blessing of stones and molten ashes
is too much to bear,
I find myself once again left broken by the stars
and by all that is alive and wondrous in the air.
Tell me, where can I find the holy water?  The one
that I can drink and be transformed as if by magic?
Where can I find the book of prayer?   What page has
the incantation of mineral and ice?  I listen for the
falling walls, I listen for the trumpets of angels and
demons, I am lost in the myths of mud and melting ice.
Dark belly egg, dark seed of painted blue birds and
foreign nests, yolk strong in the synchronous
mathematic of chaos and arrival, I falter once again
in the angry stare of wooden gods, I wait to open like
a night flower, I break in the wind that won't stop blowing,
I wonder where seeds get the strength to grow.