A low-slung mist
stultifies the LA sunscape, setting the stage to play
the part of a rainforest’s cupola.
But rain doesn’t come
even though I am ready.
Boots and sweater, and a nameless
heartache to accompany
my attire,
hibernation
at times suits me,
but these days, these years,
I can ill-afford the luxury
of wallowing, of pining, of yearning.
Today, through the trenches of a familar
yet unknown abyss,
I cradle myself,
filled with a boundless love,
as intricate and vast
as the stuff of dreams.
A runner, springy and supine,
passes as I sit.
I feel catatonic but my soul,
a burbling brook, joyously knows
the routes of God.
Knows the loving hands that hold me
like a child holds a love-worn doll,
perfectly beautiful to eyes
that have seen all its years,
limbs gone missing,
hair brushed out of its head,
a marble eye rolled down a drain,
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