# Doubts I doubt the sun will rise tomorrow, doubt the stars know their own names, doubt that love exists beyond the trembling of two hands. I doubt the words I speak find their way to ears that listen, doubt that silence means consent, doubt that distance measures absence. I doubt the ground beneath my feet, doubt that morning brings relief, doubt the promise in a glance, doubt that sorrow ever learns to leave. I doubt the mirror shows my face, doubt that time moves forward still, doubt that anyone has loved the way I've loved the void. I doubt the purpose of these doubts, doubt that doubt itself is true— and in this architecture of denial I build the only certainty I know.

I doubt, so I exist...
From truths wrung dry,
in the cradle of simple longing,
our life is born with grace,
and then it departs in pain.

And perhaps death is a strange dream,
after the knotted puzzle of life comes undone,
most blissfully written heaven and hell,
in words of love or a tightened knot.

And still we have not found the key...
We dwell still in coincidence.
In coincidence, our fates take flight,
and it is no accident that we weep and laugh,
when it wounds us in a human way.

The immortality of spirit terrifies us.
But since you and I are mortal,
in our minutes, we are executioners
of their sufferings---blind,
after every accusation---without sin,
after every repentance---made saints,
after every death---more human still.

Or perhaps life is love,
Or perhaps it is merely a test.
And after life comes life again...
And we desire. And we seek.
But we do not know.