Holy Thursday for Sekou Sundiata Though my bones be crushed to fine white powder (& blinded eyes will never find the light), I search for ancient rhythms in your arms & wonder (as loving renews this play) what cure there is for pulsing myth & terror. Do not wonder at my fears: we can love! The night folds in upon itself like grace & starry fragments penetrate the air like old salvations that pulse too late from distant places. Upward in the night, cold hands clasped to keep the fire out, we flash -- like grace across the rim of the world. Dennis M. Gaughan

Back to the Astrophysicist's Tango Partner Speaks