Holy Thursday
                                    
        for Sekou Sundiata 
                         
Though my bones be crushed to fine white powder
(& blinded eyes will never find the light),
I search for ancient rhythms in your arms
& wonder (as loving renews this play)
what cure there is for pulsing myth & terror.

Do not wonder at my fears: we can love!

The night folds in upon itself like grace
& starry fragments penetrate the air
like old salvations that pulse too late
from distant places.   
                                     Upward in the night,
cold hands clasped to keep the fire out, we flash --
like grace across the rim of the world.


Dennis M. Gaughan





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