I borrow from your promises
raindrops that fall on the face of truth
and wonder how far I have to walk
to find the unpaved road
down to the “Last Five Miles to Grace”

I’ve sat with Joie
staring into these pictures of you
that dissolve from salting
minor cuts on unwashed hands
that want to find the mix of tone
to trace the shadow of your thoughts
that try to trace your footsteps
through unforgiving streets of Berkeley
Your scent wanders into the nooks
of a well-kept secret only you were able to tell.

Maybe
when my hair is as tousled
or curls like yours
when the frame of my glasses
are wider and more than black
when my stomach is nearly as full
and more than a two days growth of my beard
will justify a voice deep as yours—
bold enough to hear
the call of the muse
asking you to sacrifice
your everything

That owl is
still alive
sitting out on the branch of loneliness
feeling the force of sway
in the wind of unborn fury
still asking who
who will carry the load upon their back
that pulled you to your knees
when there was no mercy.

My arms are not nearly as scathed as yours
but are strong enough
to carry the burden
down the “Last Five Miles to Grace”
I will meet you there with a new gun
to shoot down
all the tweaked stars in the sky
that don’t shine so bright
with bullets tipped with passion
sure to break the skin —
You never missed.

We can heal them
with purified raindrops
fallen from the face of truth
that runs with the ink in my pen
keeping your dream alive
that poetry will save the world
while you wait
at the end of the road.