Crude Communication
Decades of
prayers
Have risen
to endless blue
Like
ill-formed smoke signals
From this
fire of me
They
have not
Cooled and
unclamped my fists,
Have not spent
my soul
To tranquil piety
Rather,
I breathe out
acrid, clinging words,
Tasting
blood and bile
Wondering
fitfully
How beauty
will be woven this time
