wishing is not right
when i have tenderness
reaching its orby nuetrality
down my useful throat.

oh to love again--to bring
heart's worship to peace.
takes broken backs and
tipped over dreams, i guess.

i want to know: why in love
do we find so many parts
of the unloved self come
buttoning up for the cold.

and i need to know: why
can it be that way, when
earth has green cold silver
turn and turn with nighttime.

who told me i had to be false:
that love couldn't be cold and
graceless, that love had to snag
its shoulder on the plug of night.

i admit i spend most of my time
questioning faith and love
what matters i guess is the ordeal
i surround myself with.

ruined, i am ruined, only to
back up again, into an empty
space i have never collected
and it is new to me.

i ask myself why did i never know
the part of me that could truly
give love? it was because
it goes beyond knowing.