This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.

No Words

There are no words now.

No way to convince you,
no way to help you see,
no way to argue the evidence,
no way to tell you that we sat
one night and listened
to how the crickets sang as one,
how the night itself hummed one name,
one sound, one endless echo
between lover and beloved.

By permission after performing
the roles we were assigned,
being beaten down like wet wool
next to a river, and teased apart
with a fine-toothed comb
made for tangled falsehoods
and what must be pulled apart
for a tapestry to take shape,
form itself into something greater
and far simpler than any story,
any sense, any fancy song…

No way, no guide, no god
but God.

One simple sound,
heard just as well in the
slowed down chorus of crickets,
or the sliding of waves,
or the trees which whisper
one Word, one rhythm,
one full response
for the righteous few,
still finding their feet
on the wayless way:

way out, way in, no way
but this.


For, Words

The delicate

Night Voice