There is a light in the valley:
bodies gather from the horrible dark
and find a couple, many-feathered and bright
weaving a tapestry of song
into the dead reality of night.
There is a man at the door
in a mask with golden eyes:
better to burn the sacred gift
than to let him re-divine
the old and knotted matter of our lives.
And there is a word in the street
among the old and the blind:
they say you can find
(if you are ever so benign)
a single fabric untouched by the violence of time.