A shiny halo can work loose
and when it slips
it becomes a noose
your sainthood lasts until the day
the rest of us see your boots of clay!

I got to wondering today
if I am an old dog
who can’t be taught new tricks
if that windmill going round and round
catching the wind between the blades
is really who I am,
if the universe surges
into the spaces still left in me,
if it is trying to wake the music
yet alive inside
in the curves of my heart,
if the blood pulsing there refuses to go down
in one grave path
and insists on a symphony of swerve
an inclination in a new direction.
If that breeze is really grace
then maybe I am being reborn
a puppy full of life
eager to be all the dog it can be.

Yawning ocean current swallows
hollow bottles crushed for blasting
back to shore exquisite sparkles.

Grace that bears our abject sorrows
costs a change forever lasting:
birth again as broken marvels.

your breath lingers on my skin
even as your body pulls away
the bass beat drops to the rhythm
of the thing pounding my chest

your fingers trace my figure
every touch is a blessing and a curse
goosebumps at these drops of gasoline
that set my body on fire

if the touch of your fingers

is enough to make me fall
six feet under, straight to hell
imagine what happens when
you give the grace of your lips