It was silence to
attract us. It was pain to sew us. The galloping horse, the beige falcon, those
turquoise eagles. (To be like Christ, made painful, fraught by terrors.) By a
price, seated front row, a great grandson was baptized—on his journey, to know
his rain, to palm his joys. So existential—never to lose it, it has become
inherent; steep debates, human suffering, a strange and contagious condition.
Hands open, cupping invisibility, bread and wine transubstantiated; the human
eucharist, at memories manifested, too many becoming unsettled; sheer majesty
of the warmth, to become something in fury, to pretend it’s different in other
souls. By grace of the hawks, by an ocelot with fangs, by a dragon becoming human.
Ashes on Wednesday. Prayer on Sunday. Ascension by diligence. Time enveloping
itself. A compass around reality, semi-bent, unspent and exhausted—the world
spinning, an anxious glance, coming to meet himself.
