This is a psalm that hid in you.
It’s words, only solving problems
of definition, casually like our glances
that barely touch for their hunger.

And in your absence, deep in the mystic,
you grew closer to me. And still I sleep
like stone. Reason cuts into my sides
strange symbols that count

out memory. Not really strange, simply
awkward. In the beginning they were strange, before
I saw they were upside down or backwards,
like an ocean of sand with deep currents

and waves as mammoth. As dark a brilliance
in hues of open petals; their color reflecting a light
from this psalm, too bright to read,
blinding as a Moonless night.

This was not written for understanding only motion,
Clear as the streams that become
the sea, in Latin, doubt, or spite.
I can only leave them to comfort you.

Return to your dreams, it will be morning soon.
After this has been forgotten and returned
to a drawer, as the words blur and I settle like dust
on the dresser; a thin reminder of before.

Tired pen, dirty paper; words blowing like handfuls of mist
that sting the unhealed wounds. Still I will rest
like the stones washed on the beaches,
alone, like this psalm that hid in you.