The Weight of Morning by Daniel Gillespie

Closed legs of the moon,
a fatherless yard in black,

and the sick bend down to touch
the ground’s feet of holy water –

one dip of the head
sinks the earth in stillness.

And a voice, like ruined keys
for a perfect door, falls into our hands.

This is the prayer of our fingers
feeling the turned cheek
of a blood-touched world,

and no open mouth or prophet
can engineer these scattered marbles into eyes.

Yet there on the ground
the offspring of proximity lies belly-deep,
the seeds of hidden suns,

and the breeze of another thousand years
moves the shadows
mixing our ribs with the dust

until the weight of morning
crushes into odor
our efforts to see
what can’t be seen.