“GRACE” by Bront Davis

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Let us stop
For just a moment
And reason together

The old men in their suspenders play
Endless games of cards
Summoning all into a grail theory of everything
Where beauty and brutality are reconciled
I doubt I shall live to see it

Illuminate the darkness of the night
Burning whatever fuel is at hand
The steersman can wait
Elevate the cup and turn the page

Or go to the desert
Wear the mask of suffering
The bones cannot be counted
Yet with one voice they speak
The words of the dead
And the meaningful dust is swept away

Keep eyes on windows and doorways
Remain vigilant and careful
Another step and we’re incinerated into ghosts
Our wages may be death as well

The wound, you see, was invisible or hidden
But it bled day and night
From it, the self poured out
Poured out what was taken for granted
And her only consolation
(but the one that made up for the rest)
Was that she was chosen, validated
As the years dismantled her

So, even when we find it
We cannot hold it
We cannot collect it in canopic jar
For a draught now and then

Beyond every drawn circle lies another
Encompassing
And regardless of whether it redeems
Perhaps it holds
A sign of benevolence that can’t be sought
Only recognized

As the rain comes
So the rain goes
With gratitude we may answer, Amen

-Bront Davis

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