If you had turned behind me Issac,
I would have forgotten you there,
would have ignored the purple nettles
while I sweated stung through sand,
would have cried a little less over cold steel
and the lamb blood stain on a black stool,
would have dreamed of holy times at fleshy places
with a silver needle stuck in a smoke orange dawn,
would have meteor screamed voiceless
into wondrous galaxies beyond our pale.
All only to cry into granite always an altar in the end.