Final Field

Final Field

Are we sheaves of self, loose
leaves bound by a certain gravity
of the heart?

Or cairns of bone stacked
so precise, spilling blood
and thought and voice,

holding shape for Spirit
to cascade to the bowels
where Soul lurks?

Or are we a vast emptiness
between neurons, a final field
of stars so infinite

our light is still
a dark thought, speeding
from the mind of God?

This entry was posted in Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *