trying this again

The first time I posted this poem something went wrong and there was html madness going on. So I'm trying again:

Trinity

I.

The boy pixilated

Pointed

Quickly scoops cold

Salt water

into the hole he has been carefully digging

since noon.

Dark arms of dusk

land long across the

Rocky sand

growing shadows meet

the boy’s heavy intention

His smooth brow furrowed

Grabs wildly at the tide

small hands cupped

to receive communion.

Instead the water continues to roll

Swirling

upon the sand

Leaving its memories behind

the boy, with few memories yet,

Bows before his work

Sweeping in every drop

Overflowing.

He is Icarus

Having never left the ground

already fallen.

II.

My eyes close to the chorus engulfing me.

I want to be the child again.

I say one sentence; the church falls away

I am left in the space of

Darkness between color on a pointillist canvas.

Awed by the spectrum of harmony

The continuous whisper.

I ache to share, but stay silent and still as can be.

III.

Wiley Coyote never won

Over the din of slurping milk he would run out

Over the canyon, trickling river and stop

mid-air, an apostrophe with no possession.

He would look down, I would crunch on a fruit loop

and the cereal would glide down my esophagus.

One of these days, they say, He will learn his lesson.

He won’t look down

and on that day he will the story goes,

make it across the vastness so easily

with a placard that reads “What the…?”

But before he reaches the Roadrunner

he will have achieved such momentum

He will sprout angelic wings,

fly high above that

Arizona painted cubist landscape,

straight up, never stopping.

IV.

In that flame, where Servetus died he learned the truth,

despite having lost his brain.

His skin separated, melted away

from his bones which cracked

like the hay beneath what were his feet.

There was the truth of the body and the spirit

nature of the flame and

the flaming heart pierced through with heat.

Zeal and politics.

What lay in that spark, in those ashes?

What was it he faced, when he had lost his face?

A cool darkness erupting from rock?

Sound of rushing water?

Or a perpetual melting that he couldn’t stop?

Maybe the fire went blue frozen and ceased

Maybe it all ceased.

V.

Rocks, like almost anything,

Are mostly space.

They are as empty as a glass of water,

a hand on a shoulder,

the moment before amen,

spiraling galaxies.

But the rock you gave me is more space than most

Dotted with holes, you could run golden thread through.

In this rock, how much ocean could we pour

careful not to spill.

I look through one hole

straight at you.

Our conversations can be underwater sometimes.

The spaces among words, heavy

as a rock.