The Faithful.

His eyes are moorings.
Bright silver tethers
threaded through my palms.
chains that clasp
my hands together
in prayer or supplication
so that when he turns to leave,
my body heaves after him.

He feeds me a secret grace,
bit by bit, like breadcrumbs.
A blood trail that leads to
some untold, boundless glory;
to a God that knows, that lives
in the steel of his glances,
and uses them like a blade.