“…but Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger.” –John 8:6b
To know at once our whisper,
warm black syllables, what we shed,
is to understand with scaled touches
the again we visit, our silent dusty dark.
Hear, we speak, our voices booming,
unfamiliar. Here we peel off skin, expose
familiar shame—sin still tastes the same.
Do we write in dust our thoughts,
or search for colorless stones smoothed by serpent bel-