There is some bend left in the bones, some press of cells left before there are splinters and tears. There is some sky left of the silty turns of flags and failings. The scratched lenses can not give away the center of the secrets. The dull tongue can not find a way to sing that bitter line so sweetly in the rumor laden air. There is a breath waiting to be taken. There is a story never to be told.
Grace occurs to us so profoundly in its absence. Heaven hovering over whatever the worst of the world. Brittle remnants and castles crafted from damp sand. The bridle lie and the buffeted kite. The reach that the grasp can not manage. The furthest stretch outside the evidence somehow assures that there is no need for proof.
My knees are dappled with cuts and bruises. My eyes are slow and dim. The hour presses its nose against the window. The hour is always looking over its shoulder, trying to see inside. I am a dumb dead thing, only alive in opposition. I am a knot of curses, a crush of betrayals. I am a list of words that never ends soon enough.