By the virtue of sound: “A son was born.”
Spirit digitization.
Half a century debating blackness.
Can’t say—she ever-changed: I never met her.
Many are warring to feel spotless: maybe then.
The candor of disappointment.
It was always poetry: it was evermore prose.
Accustomed to this life—it was normalized.
Every texture of chicken. To see a miracle.
To elicit Belief, nearly empty, filled with something felt holy;
whelmed by understanding; trying to unravel it; it can’t be what we see.
Out of slums, such brilliance, such incredible ambition.
They saw one coming, an invisible man, touched by reality.
So metaphoric. Such teleology.
Purpose that one exacts—not as endorsed.
Broken hydrants. Open skies. Precious beliefs.
Learning pride against whelming resistance.
To feel indebted. Each in passing.
