wb :

The touch of a hand on a screen of a lily in the water at daybreak; that is the sound that rings through his mind, and his heart is thumping out all the horrors his eyes cannot forget, loins desperately remembering the ribaldries of the evening before in sudden burning recollection, and the time is not right, the day is dark, the clouds strike with the fever of a maddened God upon the tree that stands outside his porch, splitting it in twain and setting the ground alight with the embers of a nighttime's folly, birthing ash and dust that blows away in the wind, across the lake, scattered motes of consciences and memories lingering, as though kept aloft by nothing more than starlight in the everlasting midnight of a sunless world where skeletons rock on their porches and bones rattle in their cots.

Full post:
http://whythecynic.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!EBCF08A01A145542!1198.entry

Last year - dithering on the doorstep
of a forgotten, unfriendly church, in an
unfamiliar, un-navigatable city, cool
dark dusty pews and golden high ceilings,
tracing the reliefs with my sketchy belief-


This year, climbing mountains to find
flowers, I clear spaces where it hurts.
Orange-juice like light spills from the
spring windows of this chapel, dying hair
straw-color, percolating into happy singing


Coats and scarves hug the backs of chairs;
the songs from these who grew up in winters
and snow are the same old ones from my all-
round Easters at home. I carry the cross the
long trek to the silent room with its unwashed


laundry, five flights of stairs with the year's
guilt; why didn't I go into that gilted place,
why didn't I chafe at inertly training back
just to be safe, now, I pray I am forgiven
for my haste and wrath will never find me again.