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waiting at the Pieta

There are doors in the antechamber.
There is the always-choice to walk through any
one of them.
There are signs above the doors, a
warning to the effectiveness of being
But if it isn't known now, it will be known
sooner than later--if any door is opened,
even a little, little enough will be enough
will ever be the same.

Responsibility is a question and not an answer,
even if it is known that
it comes not without suffering:
everything that isn't nailed to a cross must come off.
And that says nothing
about nothing, nor answers the question of harmony,
how it seems to be lost and found
yet never seems to
enter in, not even silently,
not even in the temples of prayer,
nor the altars built to accommodate the law
or to stone statues that resemble the personification of love,

Still there is the morning vanishing into
thin air with the self of morning
answering the eternal Yes. Yes, this is it, this
is how it's always been and yes, it is I.

It is I, I find. And so the seasons change,
another day ends.
What came is
already gone and still is.

A perfect offering.

Editing stage: 


hurts upon the thorns
like torn thrones
bright red kissed drops
like votive light
the stamp of flame
that dances in its class
of urging


I have a habit of driving on
my mountain bike through
sign posts beneath signs
like gates

Doors like perceptions
hinges like conscience

I remember the lake at night
with the starfeild
the shore far away
and relfection as If we
were a vessel weightless
between worlds

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