Lovers hold on

Communion wafer sun an orange
disc through thin cloud, creating
a brief epiphany, then endless
seamless combinations of bruised
shadow and changing magnificence.

Do others see this, glancing upwards
from a lunchtime commute?
Is the sky coursing through them, too,
or has circumstance finally skinned me?

I have performed all hidden sacraments:
I have taken hideous pleasure
in raw longing; I have pressed against
my dissatisfaction; I have turned
neglect over in chapped and
bleeding hands; I have cried
out in the wilderness and
answered my own voice;
I have suffered. I have suffered.

At 3 o'clock we arrive at the afternoon's altar.
Embryonic light and pink in a calmed sky cannot be
captured; to do so would be blasphemy.
I am ready to experience you, to enter you.
I must enter you.

And heading home over ice crusted snow,
eyes blinkered by gloved hands,
I briefly stagger, and we both laugh
at my lack of perspective.