It is cruel and embarrassing
 to have an asteroid strike my beauty;
my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted
 with the havoc and the gash.
When my volcanoes erupt,
 my people chastise my
  self-inflicted violence.
They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature;
 they question my bountifulness.
In fear, some look to the moon
 and the craters and despair,
  but I am earth;
   I am shrouded in miracle:
    patient, folding old skin within
     to be rekindled into new,
 canvasing barren landscapes with
  humble grass, and flowers, soon.

I fancy myself a fine craftsman
 with fortitude enough for a mansion,
someone who adorns, with gold filigree,
 the polished, stained pine
 and keeps each room
  appointed, waiting
  for the assessor’s gaze.
Had I known it was my home I was crafting,
 I would have squatted upon a pond and been
someone who has enough fire
 and just enough wood
  to live.

Little boy,
you just have a patch
 to hide your nakedness.

Patch after patch
 — too much needlework —
 until you are emperor.

All patched up, no place to go.

Failed essays,
 each belying
 my immaturity…

What am I saying?
This is my life I lament:
 real life… lives.

Their blood stains my hands.
Why did I try to write
 with them.

I lament spilling ink,
 but the sin is simpler:
  taking people’s lids off,
  handling their bottles.

When I can afford no clothes
 these I have are sanctified;
  the threadbare are forgiven and loved.
  That they exist is the miracle.
  That I have any at all is God’s blessing.
When I can afford what is my wont,
 a new criteria rules the wardrobe.
Holy is rendered crumby
 and the faith that held the threads together
  is unraveled;
  a new regime overlooks the angles
   guarding tramps.

I didn’t realize the candle
to refrain from hiding
was my own,
not some super–candle I would one day
acquire or already had that was better than
my real one.

I didn’t realize the money
to refrain from burying
was my pocket change:
all that I had in the world.

I didn’t realize the virgins
weren’t particularly chaste,
but just so young they might not trust
their own wicks.

I kiss the light, bathed in love.

I am exhausted and defeated,
 unable to deny my tragedies
  were my own concoction;
it was me who held my nose
 as I imbibed its bitterness.

Faith stands, still unblemished,
 present to life, vulnerable to wholesomeness,
 permissive of its good nature.

She smiles as I let go of fear
 to hold the hand that was always there.

I’d go out into the world
 and find that marrow
 I feel in my bones
 must needs be found;
a pause before the gate
 to check
 should there be anything
 upon these grounds
or, maybe, give me time
 as I traipse amid the ants
 between the blades of grass here.
I’m not going anywhere.

Gazing at iridescent coals
 we remember at leisure
 the wet logs we used then jettisoned,
 the dry ones we trucked too many of,
 the rolled magazines the fire choked on,
 the lighter fluid the flames absorbed as quick as we poured,
 the ineffectual pop of the lighter sacrificed to the pile.
When we placed
 leaf next to leaf,
 stick over leaves,
 stick next to stick,
 log over sticks,
 log next to log,
 tending over logs,
we had s’mores for a time,
 tending fire.

Little boy: patience,
 or, at least let yourself be.
You don’t see the angels loving you,
 the humble intricacies of your snowflake,
 the mountain you pirouette from.
I admonish you: love yourself,
 still, only if it be thine will,
 lest you deprive the least of your lovers
 of a tittle of your jot.
Nurture yourself, breathe, grow,
 should it suit you.
The bright Devil burns, still not yet God.