I have a friend who was
never born yet wrote every birth,
who knits fire from darkness
and has followed me to the
sequined Orion above
and to chasms without maps below.
All His steps were mine.
I knew Him well when His stars
lured me to the surface of night--
a long black sigh that cast those
Mistaken for magic or elements that
gambled and won a miracle, His steps
can be traced to quasars
and back to atoms
and to the uncharted mazes of minds,
and I've seen Him part oceans
each time spring arrived,
when the air was not the molten
fit of summer,
but laughter you could taste.
He flowed from an adoring sky
and patiently waited outside
my dreams--all those high priests
that bless my desires.
Then in winter when the begging
trees clawed at a locked sky
He brought back spring--
instant gold disguised as faith.
Romping through His simplicity,
I uncovered the Ages--
a universe in every cell,
but crouched in cocoons I
learned the most;
in darkness I interpreted light,
often exchanging it for skin,
and it was in some unnamed tomb
where I finally saw the sky.