Lord Is Not a Word

Lord is not a word. Song is not a salve. Suffer the child, who lived on sunlight and solitude. Savor the man, craving earth like an aftertaste. To discover in one's hand two local stones the size of a dead man's eyes saves no one, but to fling them with a grace you did not know you knew, to bring them skimming homing over blue, is to discover the river from which they came. Mild merciful amnesia through which I've moved as through a blue atmosphere of almost and was, how is it now, like ruins unearthed by ruin, my childhood should rise? Lord, suffer me to sing these wounds by which I am made and marred, savor this creature whose aloneness you ease and are.