95 Here

HERE

This vast, great emptiness
is warm, sun-drenched, soil
coursing through my cold veins.

I can’t,
for the life of me,
find me here.
Everything is almond cake.

This heavy-scented silence
is days of quiet, running-rain
oil-soaking this dry, old skin.

I can’t,
for the life of me,
find You here.
Nothing wears its own face.

In this sweet, bewildered state
You drip your best wine, deep
into my hungry, milk-weaned heart.

I can’t,
for the life of me,
find us here.

How is it, then,
that You hold me fast?

 

JAMES RQ CLARK