for Lorenzo Albacete
I want to drink the sweet cup of your serotonin, Oh God,
and eat the sweet meat in your bones, broken Christ.
“These are my t-cells, broken for you.
This is my biochemistry, shed for your healing.”
Rilke, in translation, calls you “drifting mist,”
You transpose the songs of old stars
in great pyres,
their death rattles hum on our sinews,
forging all means to see
and receive them.
Their death is Father,
their light across time his Son,
our receptors, star-born,
atoms within us receiving.
This is no metaphor, physics.
Spiritu sancto, Amen.
Comprehend with us
brimless fires, these,
alive with holy heat,
perfect burning beads by which
we contemplated God.