Two paths diverged in a yellow wood

written during Jeff Bezos’s brief extraplanetary excursion

When he breaks orbit,

And gawks at us porthole distorted,

The impoverished and squalid,

Infinite whorl of storms covered,

He’ll watch over us from shore to mall, 

Parochial, the manor’s lord,  

Will it make his collar itch,

To see things that he can’t control?

Will it hurt the heart he vaulted,

In exalted palo alto ground? 

Maybe he’ll pause to see us as more

Than a circle of worker and customer,

Worker and customer,

Customer, worker and customer, worker and customer, worker 

Mark your path down my back's softness

Leave me wound-raw 

And red as roadkill

Numb the nerve endings webbed beneath my skin

As your constant drumming blurs my body's clumsy edges.

And when she grabs my hands her nails

Dig deeply in my palms and she

Smells like blood and wine as she

Seeks to fix the fault that she

Perceives beneath her breast. No

Mounted sermon sought to cure her

But still she stumbles on the chapter,

Book and verse of her redemption

From everything the three she knows

Remain are faith and hope and love

But faith has been worn pretty thin

And patchy hope lets doubting in so

Sheltering the struggling flame that

Burns an inch above her head I

Offer comfort muted trumpets

Try to flip her temples table

Trust me when I say that love could never not be holy,

look,

I too have battled, lost, here place

Your fingers in my side and feel

The wounds that I put there before I knew

To listen, stretched my arms out

Hoped to wake up somehow different,

Three days later i still love her,

Hallelujah

We are risen.