On a ledge I remember pleasure:

the kind of pleasure expressed by mouths,

pursed wincing or gaping.  Let the

colors cut time and run.

Lord, we hold our enterprise

in Your hands.

Let it not be harmed

by the necessary salt.

Your impossible task is ours

in flesh on this Earth.

Let the cells dance,

may the vein memorize

its only pure circuit.

Sentence the fungal creep

to come in on an open window.

Come invite the sunlight to kill.

Let me be its only wound

that never moves.