A supplicant like me, awoken now
By the hugging moon? Or its perfect howl?
Giving in to wasted light, bent like supple bough
How can we union, among deep valley?
Eyes are turned to ground and minds have turned to stone,
all of the organs shake in a basket.
His scant words are stuck to me like gristle to the bone,
in a desert with shadow puppets passed
Forty days wed with eighty more to go.
This life has proved a waking dream in skin,
for with burdened limb I reap as I sow
I search for seed and meaning in where I’ve been
patient pitch dark fate, waiting to be found.
By his faint tread like warm breath on cool ground.