My Beautiful, Weird Bent Revolution

Split a block of wood,

—we are there.

Pluck or plant a flower

—we are there.

Read science fiction, or scripture, through a Summer rainstorm

—and we are there.

The swell of tides and a woman’s womb, silent-now toys,

And night in a child’s room: we are there.

God, the soul, died long ago, but still he conducts and connects

Word and thought, rag and bone between us ever still.

We are each and every new question today to yesterday’s final answer.

We are the revelation and salvation for the unknown sins that dawn tomorrow.

We are each other, and each others’ savior.

We are the name, and the word, the groom and the all-father. We are

Brother night and mother morning—sister Buddhist and father time.

And, if we find joy, or sorrow, or luck, or tomorrow, we find it only

In the love in the spaces between the spaces between us.