When we are done here
I will save the parts of us
That make beautiful fiction
I do not always want to acknowledge
The unhealed parts of my self
That seep into my clear waters
I do not expect you
To kneel at my muddy banks
And drink
Know that I would see you quenched
Not thirst
How long will the threshing floor turn
While I wait hungry
For the grain to separate
From my sins