in the nightsuit stiched

in the darkness we can

see to never touch

again the sun,

& yet it always

comes to always come.

in the nightsuit stiched

& thimble-threaded unto blood,

we can seem to never get the skin

& yet it always comes

to come when cloth undone. 

 in the godhead we who

seek to speak 

but not today in tongues,

always it comes to us again

in whispered drum.

& in the artless wail

of brokenhearts

in deeds ill-done,

there is a sun,

there is a skin,

there is a drum,

that's yet to come.