The Column

Scalpel-like caress-ings,
Across vertebrae,
Protruding as landing lights,
Down back,
From nap of neck,
With glowing blue blinking tracer markers,
From fingers,
To toes,
Skin stretched to fit,
Over pulled tight,
To spinal storms of lightning.

The Door to Your House

Your moisture,
In a house at dusk,
An occupant,
Skilled in skin,
Pore and saliva,
Bathe in wet salt,
In a slow house,
Anchored to a boat by the sea,
Your loss of self,
A drenched floor,
A perspiring ceiling,
A reluctant door.

Ritual Without Rite

Ritual without rite,
An empty hole,
Like water covering stone.
Passage without site,
An abandoned desire,
Like blood covering bone.
Power without might,
A broken vow,
Like metal covered by rust.
Vision without sight,
A lost soul,
Like debris covered by dust.
Dreams without night,
A blasted tower,
Like teeth without bite,
A stolen heart,
Like God all alone.
Like your Holy Wars,
Fought without a fight.