Stars and Sighing

Here it is: The secret of the soft skin,
the quiet flesh you sinned against 
and wore so cleanly thin. 

Here it is: the bird beneath the cracked moon's
ragged rising;
the roses in the limp room damply dying.

There are two motions: 
stars and 
sighing.

We are the bruised miracle,
needling the chapped and chatteled Word,
immaculately misconstrued and overtongued
and badly heard.

We rattle in the time that we will bendlessly become,
and shuffle on the loose feet of a borrowed battle drum.

I am my native land. I am the soil 
and the scars;
The stains of coffee cups and circuits 
of the stars.

and history...
and history...

And history, the spidered orbit
of a bone beneath an acre 
of wet grass.