spent a coffee drenched weekend
tucked inside belly of the beast,
strange days with no pretend
of how this world is pieced,
and sometimes words refuse to originate
from a day casting clouds over grey ocean.
sometimes pain demands from us a deeper dark devotion,
one that can bring its witness to their knees —
and whoever said there were any guarantees
of any sort of grant of ease?
but the battle leaves a warrior in the dust of its fierce fight,
and warrior binds wound and heart with a modest, sturdy might.
and I held the world inside my hands that weekend of the beast,
and the world was a bruise, war-worn field, a wreck from west to east,
and I heard its howling, like a hunted wolf (often mistaken for the wind).
and believe you me, there’s willful blindness with which we all have sinned.
some weekends bear the brunt of us, cater to our needs,
and some weekends bear the brunt of All,
and those are the ones that supersede
the dreams and aches of one swollen soul;
no, it’s the entire universe that bleeds,
waiting, in agony and hope, for our responding call.