We resemble each other: mischieveous
without criminal intent. a hodgepodge of want
to be good but attracted to evil, of guilt
and Oh, God to a face that stays hidden.
The quick all share the same air, block the sun
and throw shadow, yet each follows
their own unique blueprint of torment-
some go mad, some rob, all suffer
from flashback and hindsight. You are
like them: both thicket and gift, anguished,
part water. I worry you will be used up.
We are webbed together, an odd apparatus.
Is this what it means to befriend? To speak
with astonishing truth. Awake, you are most
like true worship: unbidden, delirious, and tinged
with the bitter. And not wrong when you state
that death will release you from a terror
of light touch and fever, palm print and flesh.
But death is a river away and this is what
you are good for: fluted field and naked bough
under satellite and sinew of wire.
