Palm Sunday, 1998
A thought interrupts. A draggy river
Runs under a cloud of power.
There will be signs, all right. The Giver
Of time and anecdote splits the hour
Into years that hone
Their edges on the edges of a rumor.
Words wait to be filled, as if they could
Digest their meanings' absences
Without the call of being loved or understood.
And yet, even now, there is no sense
Which doesn't end in an unfolding
On the loud map of the soul. The miracle then?
The remote slate of a gravestone, sprinkling
The grass with pardons, or the skin
Seaming the scar of a knee into pink plastic?
The sea roars and tosses like a great plant
In ecstasy that warms the morning
And emerges eternally from an instant.
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