He touches me in the nocturnal dew; 

he bleeds in sunsets.

He searches for me with moonbeams 

through caverns.

Like Christ with Thomas, 

he sinks my pale hand 

into his wet wound 

so that I will not forget.

I have told him 

that I want to die, 

but he does not wish it 

to touch me in the wind, 

to cover me with snow.

Moving through my dreams 

like a face’s flower, 

he calls me through the green 

handkerchief of trees.

And if I altered heaven? 

I went to the sea and mountain, 

and he walked to my edge, 

and was my guest at inns.

You were an enshrouded, neglected woman. 

Youdid not close his eyelids

or adjust his arms in the casket.
 

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Page last edited February 14, 2000
by: PhoneBoy