God is the lightning
bug that I forget
about until He

Blind Faith

Tiresias taps
his cane, a prophet
singing his way
into old Jerusalem.

Blues ooze from
the gash of his mouth;
he can’t wade out
into the swirling pool.
He’s devout
as far as
he can feel
with a three
foot pole and legions
of eyes nailing
him to the soiled tile wall of the


I wonder if He keeps
the wood around his neck,
splintered and red, pried
from the tree He died on,
like we do.

Does He keep mementos
of His moment in death,
pulling them out of a
splintered box each week,
like we do?

Perhaps it doesn’t
bug Him, like spots on a
mirror He keeps close.
Or does it remain like a
hurricane on a spindle,
turning slowly, once and always?