“Do not be afraid; our fate
Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.” 
 ― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

We wake to the rumbling thunder of blood,
 pumping hearts, twisted hearts, this shadow and I
 squeeze into these thick silences of trees.
 soon the dark lights of Christmastide afflict us
 twilight memories drift, flux and flicker
 in this breeze of time.
 Penumbra-beginning hologram-end, my friend,
 such pungent affirmations, slip into the past:
 generations of suffering:
 eyes lifted to a cross, a crescent, a menorah,
 yearnings spilling onto the pages of history:
 promises made and never kept.
 Coming out of time’s descent;
 in the beginning is the word.
 the sacred apartness of the intelligible:
 fragments of the blood, firings in the brain,
 the body, a holy place again.
 This tinder-box of meaning flares,
 time ebbs, flows,
 a means to an end.

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