Epiphany

What does it mean to hold sorrow like hammered nails?
What does it mean to carry the grave as a hammering chest?
I see your heart split into blue and gray by the embrace of thorns,

watch your face fold into a grimace as you watch this cross
-road, this moment when you choose between wine and blood.
And I picture you—bright sonflower embracing this darkness,

crushed as though it ends. In the end, what sings in the morning
is light. I look at you and the weightlessness of my sighs,
your hands on mine weighing in again for the umpteenth time.