“Lord, most of what I love mistakes
itself for nothing” — Molly McCully Brown

in the inept bureaucracy
of these words
I hope
some semblance of you.
Somewhere in the pauses
these line ends
as each thought
comes as a bray
a moment to strikethrough
a word, a what that
cannot be uttered
will not
as if
grief then
topples its own illogic
such certainties
as moss
and roses these
fetters of the eye.
Somewhere, Jon, somewhere
a faith rises —
not cathedral not spired
but in
the vaulted apse
of your hand
leaving mine.

Image: Mu mumu on Unsplash

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.