Peace, Lord

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It is dark, it is silent, here

in land apart from real land,

where the stars, now, they are

bits of bone in the soil.

I hope, and I fear, running hands

over the white seed of the moon,

teeth shiny, light like crunched glass,

glittering, because the Earth still turns—

its blood is rough honey flowing from a rock,

but listen, for its whispers

are twitches of eternal muscles,

heartbeats of shine-blind holy things.

Mercy for those who live in time.

Soft touches across our cold,

broken jaws, crushed eyes, dead ones.

Peace, Lord, for us who must

bear the bruises of twilight.

We are temporary immortals.

Look now, the sun rises, spring-time

peach and pink, as though light is forever,

as deep as awe, golden and new.

Lord, take the sky from my hands

while the wonder parades

through the flowers of the garden.