I offered the tender of my heart
to suborn the hag of life’s kisses.
And I have stood in winter
against a morn dreadful and vicious.
Warped as a cinder,
burned alive,
unshriven and unshorn,
I have stood and given
until the blade is worn.
Do the bones of my smiles
not show the bruises?
Wear I not the blisters
of weary miles?
Is there a scream
I have not loosed?
Is there a blood
I have not shed?
Why do you think
I dream in red?
But at the gate between hawk
and dove,
on all the roads that scars chalk,
still I seek a compass that points to love.
