I wait for You at twilight,
filled with pooled bits of knowing
that are weighted down with passion
and quieted with mourning.
Long after You’ve arrived (You arrived at Always),
I cling with darkened eyes and angry mercury tears.
I know This One Here, and should not be afraid;
but feel abandonment from generations and a mutiny of ages.
Did You feel the same in that dim garden,
tempestuous with spirits tossed?
Your mind brimming with untelling;
releasing howling desire into a thin night air which burned and sparkled at Your touch.
You threw Your body on a rock,
crying out to One You knew would close His ears to You,
and gathered such passion in Your eyes that it spilled over–
and the wind knew it, and saw it:
bits of blood flecking down onto Your holy, grief-emptied hands.

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