first we spun wool out of amber
don’t you remember?
slaving and pricking ourselves until we were raw
falling up that dirty lane closer to God

where we lay sleeping like innocent angels
sinless and sandy
with our guts and our needles beside us
dreaming of consecration
and murmering prayers under wandering breath

prostrate like unconscious beggars
waiting for Him
don’t you remember?
rolling down off that roof without waking
or blinking
or inhaling
just sliding your soggy self downwards
so natural-like
sand.

crispy autumn will be there soon
on the fog filled mountain-top
where we met Him
digging into the wet moss
searching
picking apart the green and brown
and reaching water

cool and deep and blue.