someone says

that for all of creation our salvation lies

in the ritual of getting the paint ready,

of shaping the clay for its time in the fire,

of threading the needle to pierce the rent

and stained fabric. in the beginning was

the word is all fine and good, but in the

suffering, what succor? in the wilderness

a goat thrashes. I could paint a knife. I

could shape a bowl to catch the blood. I

could sing a love song to god. in the world,

everything is fight and grief and getting

rent. in the world everything is time and

love and being found. eyes wide. thrashing.

and so very alive in the wilderness.