where first Peter's feet leave prints
on waves, faint and clear watermarks, (secret
if you look from the storm-angle); where flints,
knapped from hearts coiled in dark lairs,
flash the abyss; where needles track scarlet
paths in flesh; where strands of hair

writhe up and fang choirs of stars
which prickle to the touch; where heartbeats map
a maze through hedgerows of briars like red scars;
where a man with golden locks
towers over a little boy and slaps
his face so hard that teardrops

etch flagstones with watermarks
that hands can't scour away or feet grind down;
where the Son of Man leaves footprints as stark
and clear as a single bell
in a steeple down in a valley that sounds
up over three trees snowed still;

where sleek women come and go
in Michelangelo smiles and tailored skirts,
their manacles spun from a spider's gold;
where a trumpet lifts a child
of slaves on molten brass; where a needle spurts
blues but the Dove claps Her wings wild;

where steps carve the shape of faith
upon a sailor's fears when the Stormking
strides out of wind or casts nets holy with freight;
where sperm and egg intertwine
chromosomes of two lovers' names and sing
a new name cradled in brine;

where flames tongue the prophet's mouth,
(my symbols, laws, and shackles burn away
when I swallow liquor the Maker spouts);
where a fetus wings toward sun;
where jets scream, lick daybreak with fire, and bray
napalm prayers; where children run,

laugh, and eat the broken Loaf;
where knives slice the crust of the Dove's garden
of bread and the scent of fresh-baked manna flows
over soil and leavens
dust; where moonlight scars the long night of hardened
hearts and gas chambers and ovens;

where dawn scores the meridian
then spills the wine of a crossing and night's
blindness dies on the crimson horizon;
where fingers print on a throat
the color purple while grasping the Light
with hands meant to pluck notes

from strung-gut and release them;
where the stone-print presses down on the grave;
where Her garden drives magic herbs against Sin;
where one green sapling forgives
nails, thorns, lash, and the rude stain of grace;
where smoke billows from forges;

where hammers ring steel to sword;
where the heartbone chips flint to flashing knife;
where the leaves in Her spellbound garden record
the Word scriptured in each cell's
helix; where mercies whirl the Stormking's life
whose feet print Love on each cell,

look there.

Peter Munro

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