underneath the weeping wall

I want to hold you at a distance

Tight as glass

Inside, a prismatic sphere

Conceived of a misplaced heaven

Although illusory

What if we had bore fruit?

Of your seed reborn

Saved, salvation?

No, perpetual regeneration

The just repetition of a pattern

Doesn’t allure

Doesn’t elect Good

As time made God’s

Fast feet

Envious of our iconoclasts’ hope

You brush yourself from the earth

The illness of the wit

Wields their weapons, sharper

Their temples deeper

Buried even

Like some creature

Not allowed

But

I hold a sanctuary of bones

Their faith in each

Of the flowers

Grace laid

After your thrown

As the vines recover

Their hearth, their haunt

Bury me while claiming

You were exiled

Promise you pleaded