O Lord,
Do not let me fall
into categories
of this or that
or some other thing.

Spare me from
the scourge of distinction--
it only scars my back
with marks of propriety.

Rather, let me fall only into
the swirling mess of your love:

Yes--that hot and sweet passionate love,
where light and dark embrace
to conceive the dawn.

There I will drown blissfully ignorant
of my own wounds and scars,
only because they have been
absorbed by yours.