Visions
 
1.
 
You reached from Nowhere,
stole me where I stood,
between two tired monks
at Monday morning Mass.
My fingers were inches from you --
the crisp, round wafer quivering
in Father's hands.
 
Not anymore.
 
There is no organ music here,
no dark, wind-whistled basilica,
no scuff and click of priestly soles
across the tiles.
 
Here, in your endless Oblivion,
I struggle for air,
suspended in a realm
without form, and void.
 
Your breath upon me is too soft
to move a hair on my head,
yet each exhalation
numbs with cold so deep
I feel entombed in ice.
 
Your dagger teeth
draw bloodlines on my shoulders,
so precisely
I feel sharpness without pain.
 
Then you're gone
and I'm back,
knock-kneed,
next in line for Communion.
 

2.
 
You appeared between me and TV
on a Sunday afternoon,
back turned, robed in gray,
face concealed beneath
a pointed cowl.
 
When I reached out,
you whirled,
showed yourself --
face long, thin,
woman's skin smooth
and luminously white,
thin lips neatly closed.
 
Your eyes told a different story --
two black ponds reflected mine
in waves.
How kind of you to hide your stare
behind that dark facade.
One glance would destroy me.
 
I felt a hint of your storm.
It raged behind the silence,
gathered hot beneath
your dark almond eyes,
burned the tips of my fingers
with Nothing.
 
Scott Speck
11/04/2001