Tell and Show

Tell and show 

and the angels don't 

so we grope 

at the isotope 

in lab coated prayer

looking for the cross 

to our T.

And I don't know 

why the black-eyed Susan

dried and dilute on the sill

makes my cry. 

And you like I 

I like you 

and this the angels know.

And I know not yet why

this matters 

to the secrets we hide 

from our sorrow

we ride with 

in that van without windows

to the desert

of our insurrection.