A full moon casts a splinter
cross the sea
It fills my quiet eye
between the marrow and the vision
And loosed from hollowed hands
these fingers drip into her ocean
they are buried under rib
with all the dark and lonely water
But the strain of night
so primitive
has patience in the empty
and the vast enduring silence
is not large enough
to hold me
So the mystery must write itself
of all her flawless mercy
as she leans across the shoreline
just to watch a needle's shadow fall
and speak with Mary Magdalene
and laugh at her approval
as she tries to pin the waves
together
To thread the secret marks
of need and want
those compass points of salt and history
that track her mask
within this book of tides
lapping slowly
as each of us ebbs
a gentle kiss of words
as shell to shore
that I might go to her by leaving
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