"Blessed are those who don't see, and yet believe." John 20:2
This is no walk of faith. Any surety
a silver man with silver hair,
swinging a cane. An even-blue rhythm.
one, he eases a heel forward, each step a rebellion.
prefigures an intersection. Cars, lights, rain.
Wind the string. Find the chord.
about him. Carmine and ochre thoughts
He blinks his outrage at remembering
beadboards of the rented room, nicked and bruised,
Godhead of memory. He tastes
The past. Apocrypha. A Virginian
of harvest. A moon-basked heifer,
But it was the smell of mown grass,
as he traced her dark areolas, the sky
the puritan seed in him said
he followed her, so she would not
And walking that faraway mountain
into silence, he searched amongst
he could not fathom. He could not imagine
above his. And for that one moment
The angry houselights blinded all reason. Such desperate
their resentment at not being stars. A missionary, a native.