Poetry

The Cross

The Cross

Streams of blood
pattern like veins
over sheared wood,
dyeing the beams red
where the rivulets ran,
flowing through grooves
in the splintered grain,
trickling down runnels
of raw, rough fibers,
pooling at the base,
at the intersection
between skull and sky
before branching down,
forking lightning designs
of judgment over dirt
or a semblance of roots
threading to quicken
dry grasses dead
over dark earth.