Grey birds lift slowly, part
to roll as I come close.
I cannot rise above my feet,
held down by earth’s hard
hands; on narrow tracks in shoes
not meant for walking far,
I walk.
I speak
of you to God
in disjointed silences, teeth-gritting
tears. If I could ask for one thing
I would
splinter you like rock,
drink your waters that stream
like DNA
beyond generations.
Drown you
into a white-capped,
infinite life
where your being
parts
lifts
as I come close.
