Liquid stones hurl trees
and dreams of fire upwards
through glass of storied power,
as Self is pinned under vaults
housing the self-donations
I fear yet still devour.
Like the wound in Messiah’s hand
the rose window stands at the boundary
to a world of love and a love of the world.
Existence is worthy,
this mortal house sings.
Grace is my gravity,
drawing the hurt and the well,
the dead and almost-alive,
to my fermenting altar.
If you empty yourself to learn
the meaning of my architecture,
the architecture of all meaning,
and you too may become,
in time’s thickening way,
a gorgeous wound.
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