Made Difficult by Rain

Could it be darker. Roman imperial religion doomed to fail, undone by love which forever eschews the merely performative. Lost in unworkable sentiment, sentence by sentence making sense of it. A rat on its haunches near the river, working its way through an apple core gathered from who knows what orchard. The unmockable. This light the angels placed in my throat by which I can just make out what to say in unfamiliar circumstances. When was there ever time. They say that when you die you are briefly surprised. Ordinary blues. River crossings made difficult by rain, sometimes by a reluctance to keep moving. Think of them, the shepherds long ago who fashioned a new God out of long nights with their flocks, stargazing and rethinking - possibly without knowing they were rethinking - the efficacy of prayer. We are the ones who invented crucifixion then climbed on the cross to celebrate. A carafe of cold water, please. Rose petals. A chimney made of brick. Late fall flowers mocking all our conclusions, and yet.