Down the feathers fall
Petals drift lazy with no wind to stir
And we hear again the silence under chatter.
Was it for this he came,
To the stringent places
Straightjacket of the heart
More sere and lonely than the curlew’s call?
Was it for this he came,
Down beyond our measure
Feeling the air grow thick,
And tasting death all the way?
Was it for this he came,
For stuttered hymns
From dry, bruised lips;
Why would he choose our pale, dead words
Above the angels’ alleluias?
Was it for this he came
To the straitened place and time
The wilderness of wanting,
He who had nothing to repent?
Was it for this he came,
Was it for me;
The passion and the agony
That these dry bones might live?
When love became a solid thing
The earth could not bear his weight.
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