In the dry silence of the upstairs room,                 
lodged between the Karma Sutra and                    
other, lesser books,                                            
I find your Logos; leather-bound                             
and thick with dust.                                            

A comical, incongruous holiness-                            
I am awed by this delicious paradox;                      
heavy, inked and gilded, these words                      
that are also flesh and light,                                  
honey and manna;                                               
dividing soul from spirit                                     
joint from marrow                                                
lover from lover                                                   
and life from death.                                              
Your double-edged rhema, edged in ink;     
a holy glut of learning.                                          

And all the time,                                                    
beneath the thin scratch of ink                               
your sacrifice throbs; 
the irony of a love too vast for words.