The Last Station

On my knees, still praying, by the blackened pond.

I watch the moon’s bare sickle and the stars

that fleck and burn my skin, asking the God

of thunder to avenge me now, to cleanse or kill

the enemy without, within, to make love

blaze like this wild grassfire, searing wind.

I feel it rising in the wood, hot wind

across the world. It stipples the black pond

and wakens what I used to know of love,

that whirling zodiac of flinty stars

that filled my nights. It’s easier to kill

now, kill what hurts. To spit at God.

What have I come to, railing at my God?

Deliver me, O Lord. Let fiery wind

rise through my hair. Why should I kill

what I love best? I’ll float above the pond

tonight like moonglow, flaking stars.

I’ll fill the water, overwhelmed by love.

It’s what I live for: love, bright love

that starts, as always, in the eye of God,

then spills through dark, ignites the stars,

the fields and forests with its blazing wind

and marks the surface of my little pond,

a skin of fire. I’d never want to kill

what I love best. I may scream kill

and kill as Cain did in my heart. But love

prevents me, buoys me up. It’s like a pond

that holds and fills me with the light of God,

a love of man. I listen to the wind

that scatters, blows, and sparks a billion stars.

I’m on my knees still, scattered like the stars.

If I am nothing, what is there to kill?

I’m piecemeal, pierced, and parcel of the wind,

with nothing left to love or not to love.

I’m one bright atom in the mind of God,

almost extinguished here beside the pond.

I’m full of stars and, maybe, full of love.

I’ll kill whatever in me turns from God,

avoids hot wind, the heart’s black pond.