Exaltere I

The soul travels lightly across the plains…

Your linen fingers cradle cups in sun-slanted rooms where the

rails of time pass sunsets behind lacerated golden

parapets into hills where frosted obelisks clutch star-

haunted mists. Blood-rusted landscapes end in

shadows where slumbering seas dream under the glass sky

and lead lines hang and lace in silent spaces. Embrace

this world where we are pushed head first, your

form, your hooks, scented with forsythia. Your heart.