The knowing of you is like holding a cup

As it fills with water

Across the plains

the kaleidoscope spreads

the smoke of your voice parting the heavens

It is a painful wonder

And a patient wound

Every time you go back in history you stop at a salt pillar,

lonely by a ruined town.

Remember the year your heart

was a dark flower not in season,

heavy for the disinherited — how they should be there

at the moment of their reclaiming

You now have brought heaven upon us all,

making the morning strange

All us millions sloughed off and reborn,

passed over

by death on a pale horse