“Lord, most of what I love mistakes
itself for nothing” — Molly McCully Brown
Somewhere
in the inept bureaucracy
of these words
I hope
to
fashion
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
or
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.
Sweet and Bitter Greens 