Sometimes even in the clearest blue sky
a wound opens up
and grey stones pour through.

A young man steps out of the clothes
of his life
and we’re left standing staring at them.

The river backs up for a moment.
Life’s promises shrink back into our heads.
The holes in everything, it doesn’t

work. It doesn’t work.
Our cries pass through the bare trees
with nothing to catch them. Empty

spaces are more solid than things.
Love doesn’t shield us, it only
opens doors, people come in,

people go out. Water flows
among rough stones, a presence
willing to be so often punctured.

How long did the Divine hesitate
to enter flesh like wet paper
to make it holy? We are learning

to be this fragile, all of us learning
to be beautiful, wounded creatures,
learning to fly with broken wings.

   —January 29, 2019

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