Look inward,
a cracked and crooked door,
a creaking hinge on the wind of God,
a spark struck only to be hurled
into the roaring furnace of being.

Feast on mirrorlight
only to starve
amid a banquet of stars

Not shrine, not chalice, not crown,
but a shard of sign, a finger of flame,
a situator flung against the heavens,
yet when clutched, it gutters,
a candle drowned in its own smoke,
ignoring the God that floods the viscera.

The divine
immediate and burning,
the air a psalm, the dust a prayer,
the world itself is gospel,
the grass a green hosanna,
the stone a thundered amen.

Look outward,
cry outward,
for the Presence is here, complete,
the whole sky breaking in your lungs.