I thought I'd lost you. But you said I'm imbued
in the fabric of things, the way
wax lost from batik shapes
the pattern where the dye wont take.
I make the space around you,
and so allow you shape; and always
you'll feel the traces of that wax
soaked far into the weave:
the air around your gestures,
the silence after you speak.
That's me; that slight wind between
your hand and what you're reaching for;
chair and paper, book or cup;
that close, where I am: between
where breath ends, air starts.
from: Where You Are, a requiem poem by Mark Doty
Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? If I
ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! If I take
the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there
your hand shall lead me, and your right hand hall hold me. If I say, "Surely the
darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night," even the darkness is not
dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.
-from Psalm 139
