John Robert Lee
We step to eternity from now
the instant at our feet
the present intersection
of irrevocable hours —
what heart’s door slams shut?
what terrible holy turns inside out?
what mirror fixes this corrupt?
what unbeing dislocates the shrieking ghost?
Ah, but blessèd saint,
clocks stilled and maps scrolled —
what high gates dissolve?
what holy tender comes?
what grace returns what grace?
what glory now unfolds within this earth?
“They all lie in wait for blood;
Every man hunts his brother with a net.” – Micah7:2
It’s generosity that’s not there.
They don’t give, they distrust the open hand.
Their own worth is hidden from them.
Those bodies breed monster hearts.
They don’t know their own beauty.
They don’t trust love.
They don’t love.
Camilo and me
cavorting in the shadows’
of their framed portraits
of Camilo and me, at
the surf-breaking end
of Ocean Spray, like
kindred spirits of shadows
of clouds on reef pools.