Ashes to ashes and dust to dust—

You make me whole and break me down;

My God, my God, there's never peace with you.

There are hundreds of animals here in the garden, but you're the worst one,

Ripping flesh from flesh and bone from bone with the cutting edge of your words

So that the real me is taken out of myself—

Taken away, leaving behind the hollow pieces of me

For you to stitch together in the image you desire.

But with gentle hands and soothing apologies, you lay me to rest on a bed of leaves,

And, dazed, I think about how I'd like to know you.

I've tried to sound the depths of you before, but a blow, a gift, a harsh word, a smile,

All turn my head away from the secrets of yourself,

The secrets that you hide from me.

Is it some long-buried past, poisoning the roots of you

So that the tree grows crooked and bare-branched?

Or am I hoping for my own sake that you are not to blame, that there is more to you?

The garden with you is a fool's paradise,

And I long to be tempted beyond its concealing hedges.