do not be beautiful to me

I have folded myself over lines,
the clean edge of white titanium exposed,
a struggle to right myself
from the counter-weight
of memory. What is
the azimuth of truth? Desire?
A compass points magnetically
to a shifting north. But there are
no paths. The flesh of the god
I seek will not bruise under the
dent of my reverence, no ink dried
vellum crumbling prayers.
The persistence of need is more
than the next breath, fingers sift through
an empty mouth




.