Clinical, condescending,
searching intermediate space:
from that height who would know
to notice the protective curl
of shoulders around ache,
shuddering away from pricks
and bruises, eyes profoundly
alone? Who would hope to hear
the jagged exhale, the knife-
edged inbreath of burdens to bear?
Who could know holiness without
blackness, stark relief? Without blood,
broken bread, who would be fed?
No comments:
Post a Comment