Grained. Lust.
A cupped idea, a
shattered line.
A connection.

If voices could all but break
the Lord doth know only.

Solid, with ink.
Indelible, faint.
Clutching. Midsummer sigh of the
milk and honey tone.

If fingers could all but slip,
the Lord should passeth
too soon.

And if blood could all but rise,
inopprotune to the last,
the Lord should knoweth not
how to watch

Bidden, a
thought. Untoward.
Silk starry-eyed
evaluation. Memory.

Tonight doth the brow blink
back. So. As the hand doth
search for wet so would
the Lord search sorrow
inside all.