An Old Prayer Nobody Has The Guts To Utter Anymore

Do you hear (what I hear, naturally)? Earlier there were spots of black dirt on your ankles. Sandals are the universal miracle, even when it rains. I do not love you as I now understand love but I do desire you in every way the world has ever called the body. Forgiveness wears sack cloth and wanders happily through the wild woods singing. We are not joined, not yet. In the picture - watercolor, pen and ink - children leap joyfully as off a balustrade. Eternity is always the dream, isn't it? I follow your dark hair, content to know the world as seamless, as the echo of an old prayer nobody has the guts to utter anymore. At last, chromatics. In the city, they talk about you all the time - near the ruined chapel, in the cheese shop, even in the park where we once discussed the tragedy that was Nietzsche. Men are always being asked to turn their back or stand in one place while bullets rain around them. We are the walls that we make, not the altar that we think is kept behind them. We have names for no other reason than to keep the face of Christ obscured. The psalm I imagine is hidden between the many sentences composed - always composed - in your name. The cost of getting him to come back to me a last time seems so high and for what? Would that I could be a man who has nothing left to lose! She wandered over to where the door lay slanted on its hinge, implying that some destruction had roiled the nest, though in departure or arrival one couldn't accurately say. I watched - this breath, then that - ever the scheming narrator.