by Adam Burrell

I have known nothing of hunger.
My pangs are a slight downpour in a hurricane world,
hurricane that coils around a single eye
of quiet, shapeshifting abysmal center of the obscure-divine dark —
wet in there, still and deep and deeply formed.
Do we dare go with that brother to face him?
Do we dare to follow the Spirit into the desert’s storm?
These questions arise from the dust,
gray moths in these brown eyes.
I reach for the pages of my book,
but they are torn by these winds.
And so I look up and — Behold! — I’m not alone.
Every single page is waiting, burning brightly
in the black womb of heaven below me.

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