Hymn

We exist on the cusp of light and ruin.
Some nights I pray for time

to fold into itself, then spit us out
small and smooth like tumbled rocks,

alloys of past and present. I want you
to hold me like you mean it. I am long and fluttering,

a moth thrashing against a bulb. Please
excuse my skittish touch. I want you, and I’m scared.

I wish we’d met when we were both still
soft as sand. The truth: most glass is man-made,

hardened by the shifting nature of warmth.
All that it carries is suspended

in a body of transparency.
I’m sorry. I never learned love

as water, tepid and full, a clean slate,
a life force. I never learned how to undress

and float with the sun hitting
my forehead like ash. The truth: God isn’t real,

but I still talk to empty rooms. Still dig
my knees against my bedroom floor and beg

to be taken as I am.