the sign
of my grief
open its wings
to me

I grasp
its hellos
with fist
of bramble,

shaking
the thorns off
from my psyche

My lust
to dig
them
into my hands
to imitate
stigmata
ceases

I spare
them
their fate
and leave
them to sting
me another day

I shush the
sonnet night, singing
misery to sleep

The imperfect
stem of my
faith, broken
one more time