twisted trees tear at the horizon
the clear night of my soul
allows a few bright stars
to stab through the darkness
landing photons from a hundred years
into my retina, bipolar cells firing

the night comes without warning
and we are all lost, carrying torches
with which we manage only to burn our fingers

clothes fall away and we see one another
it is not a pretty thing to be alone
how then can we be so loved by One
who sees all things, witnesses our solitude
our anger, our frustration
hears the terrible things
which we whisper to the floorboards
when no one can hear us

as we emerge from the womb
screaming to life in the hands of a stranger
we come into this world the same way we leave it:
covered in blood.