i write with a quill
dipped in the wine
that’s pooled in the palm
of the crucified man
who might be a thief
or maybe messiah
who could be a saviour
or a skillful liar
he knows desolation
and burning desire
and knows my blood
is the colour of fire
words graved on stone
are turned to dust
i write my psalms
on reeds and skins
i write with a thorn
dipped in the blood
that’s pooled in the palm
of the risen-up man
i write with chalk
on the veins of my city
i write with blood
on the streets of my heart
i write
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