Tuesday, July 14, 2020

Seven Years

If not this, what, and if not this now then what when?

I drive east on Route Nine a little before five o' clock talking to you, wondering who, if anyone, hears.

A heavy crucifix in my father's old bedroom, the one I prayed to as he died.

White stones.

Kneeling in dust in the pasture to trim weeds growing into the fence lines, the horses trodding around nearby.

Twenty-one, thirty-six, forty.

In whom my faith is justified.

Heal a hurt, won't you?

We who insist on codes, who break open alarms at the slightest sound, who are so careful not to cross lines that cannot be uncrossed.

The middle, as if.

Ten pound bags of coffee divided among friends, laughing in June, hotter than we expected.

Nearby Christians.

In fairness to the Romans, the shock of the resurrection must have been some story. 

Cats sleeping curled up on the dining room table near a stack of books, none of which I recognize.

How you quoted Singh - begged me to hear you - and yet I didn't realize you were the one for seven years.

Stove pipes.

What is the purpose of history?

Photos in oval frames, the clothes men wore in the 1940s, and Ty Cobb's prowess.

What's it like where you live, what am I like so far away?

No comments:

Post a Comment