Profundis
i reach into mist and feel no cheekbones,
into the dark and sense no gaze,
reach into sunsets, into rain,
into cemeteries on scaffolds
of lightning-twists of philosophy,
a cripple on gravel, my knees,
praying in tears to murky, distant
questions. for i want
to know
why i’m whorled in a robe of wounds,
slaughtered like a strong-once tree
whose branches bred generations
tossed fresh into the fire.
yes
my knees,
feet rooted in thirsty dust,
arms hacked, chest gripped,
hair trickled into a shadow
which still seems to try,
hollow and pious in its gutted posture.
a hobbled finger is all i have left,
reaching for some contour or glint--
somewhere in the inexpressible,
the unattainable, the omnipotent--
that god might possess a face.
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