Lord, if I tell you of the first thing about loneliness
will you remember what made you crack the shell 

open to spill light cross the earth on that day?
How your holy book said you “roamed” over waters.

My mother prefers to think you simply took a long,
liquid walk. I find it blasphemous to think you were lonely.

There are weeds growing in the parts of my heart 
where love should grow. And at night, there is an escathon

of failing things over-ripened and tired of holding on.
Would I make of myself both the gold and the gold-dust?

Where the hands of a lover should hold me, my step falters.
At every turn, every reel of this unfurling life, the voice says:

hold steady. Hold steady not to spill over the rubicon.
Hold steady because your creator, too, knows what it means to be alone.

I do not ask to shatter the vinculum. Do not beg to be made light. 
The matador-red of my prayers have not swindled your omniscience.

Should I not be enough proof, that the body of a man
Is eternally half-rented by desire? My valvular heart

beating in its wild cage, mating unto itself. Hold steady.
Hold steady lest the man is evicted through the cymbal gates of life.

Unlike the magi unto your lowly castle, I have no golds nor incense.
But to have a lover, for that soft touch, I pay you myself in full.

Steeped in the dark plaque of my loneliness, what, tell me
will I not give up for the salty taste of light?