While hands rest on sink edge
and skin drips above dirty bowls,
eyes see wall and window and trees in view
of an idea
who drops in,
pulls as much space
as a full day gathers snow,
and says,

Your wound is their wound is a wound
far-reaching with cold, gnarled underground fingers.
Hold the hand you fear,
befriend the dead. 
Bring here of the gifts
your people await release.
Possess the expanse
and embody the unspoken…

Hearing the music of you
in a flooding of my entirety,
more life rises in death
than even a painting of night
could dream.