Type away your own legion
speak it into glass etchings
your soul stained glass
and beautiful
light bleeds through
morning
if not
mourning.
Write it into books
your handwriting
scrawled like narrow caves
stalactites stick like dried
ink.
Press it close in leaves
of parchment
rolled in fabrics--
dead sea scrolls
hid under rock of
arid air and ancient places
Hollow spaces hide
hallowed treasures.
Make it write.
Make it right.
Make it write.
Blind men gain their sight
and somewhere in the night
the angels fade through brilliant light.
Pour balm and ointment on your feet
and wash them dry with loving eyes
and tears and weeping,
sweeping sorrows,
casting stones
our own reflection.