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Poem

The trees are still there every morning
Angry or sad
The sun beats down through your pores
Day after day after day.
And the moon will never stop.
And the spirit to which God has granted you
Walks with you
Penniless or pocketless.
"Something was dropped along the way,"
You feel.
"Well it's true we shed ourselves over the years,
Pieces of ourselves everywhere," 
says the sliding Voice.
Identity is really only something 
We think other people need.

So we pretend like we're separate from each other.

The word "firelight," is evocative.
The bloom of spirit and desire and
The ever-crackling of wild entanglement

Our lives like firelight
On the darkened beach
from the young and warm light
to the blazing chaos and wonder
to the toking and smoting and dimming
And the burial, and the cold.

I am as sad as the bottom of a well.
I have left something along the way.
A small appendage, maybe, I had meant to use at some point.
The Right Hand of God I was too distracted to keep hold of.

I am all other centerless beings
Dropping things here and there
A pen. A thought. A conviction.

And to keep hold,
to press on staring redemptively
At the circling Hands 
To live in this way is to gain wisdom
And with wisdom there is always
the healing of sadness. 
Senseless though, I know, like all else
And the evering was and the here we sit

Our eyes blinking tears from the bottom of a well.
Tearing from our core for
The love and need for others 
And their hands.

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