Here the grass itself staggers.
Who tore these holes in the sky, where the rain
rides the spine of the South Easter, where the cold crawls
through the stars like the fingers of saints? Who first mouthed out these
low vowels of hunger, the rhyme of our ribs? Can god hear
our prayers in the plosives of newspapers dragging wings,
the punctuation of tin and packets stuttering against stones
like Lazarus? Our best sung songs are sunk with kerosene
scraping the match tip of our unheard hearts-here-
in this scrap heap Sinai, the grass itself staggers in the sand
like Jesus in the desert. Here in the horns of goats and empty bowls-
saints are rising up in tattered cloth with their halos of broken glass
snagging the sun like fever , calling, crying:
come into this poem all you sparrow hearts
climb inside the open arms of this poem,
each of you has a name.
It has been written.