by Amy Reynolds
Amid the sickness of the world, I spoke
my longing. Not wishing to complicate,
not refusing to take the long walk
that lessened the distance. I’d questioned fate
long enough by that time. Gave into it,
longing burns the guilt oil phospherescent,
pretty cuts in the night. Feet finding glass,
I wanted to map the road Damascus
from another place to find redemption.
Every time you seek my sense about us,
I recall the rocks where our path began.