O Do Not Weep, She Says, For

No One Knows The Colour Of A Flower Till It Is Broken.

I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth: Nothing Is Second-best After The Sweet Of Eros.

Long Hours Trail In Their Purple And Long Years Are Lost In Just This Moment While Our Souls Are Near, Our Mouths Separate.

Take What The Old-church Found In Mithra's Tomb, Candle And Script And Bell, Take What The New-church Spat Upon And Broke And Shattered.

Lift Up Our Eyes To You? No, God, We Stare And Stare, Upon A Nearer Thing That Greets Us Here, Death, Violent And Near.