"God is the place that always heals over however often we tear it" – Rilke

These are the stigmata of the untarnished steel nails, which splintered their way into the few hours of that far away summer.

If those hours were glass, pouring song and sweat into them took no effort. See they stand now in the yard, bird bath like.

But when I uncover the fresh messages left by autumn I find that water gone, leaving a chalky stain where it stood waiting for years

To be approached, to be drunk from. Now in remembrance (and perhaps regret) I scrape my tongue over its absence,

and taste blood. This is how I tear into myself. This is how I feast on God.