This crystalline church refracts
midday beams, scatters whole
spectrums of color which meet
in the open door of our almost
empty confessional, teetering
on the edge of the unknowable,
where sits our misshapen frames
resting within one another, melded
into a bundle of eroded kneecaps
and split sacrums; we are skeleton
haystacks, our needle a ring held
on your hand and mine, opening
at the agate stone, carrying half
a teaspoon of depressant powder
that obstructs the promise written
in your initials that even against
guaranteed eternity, I chose you.