It is so
for all
who are
born of the Spirit—
soul-stirred
& sound-starved
for an unremembered Name—

whispering tides
wrangle a swelling ocean
ropes chime
above a chamber of sailboats
wings whoosh-rustle
in a murmured flight of starlings.

The Wind blows
where it chooses—
whether it moves as air
or air moves it—
it pirouettes as emptiness
in darkness—
it waltzes against the crawl—
of now.

I imagine all the prayers
swept under the pews
where the sermon is
served on a blank piece
of bread &
my ghost—
bathing in the spectral lines
of a hydrogen atom
finds a noose seductive
like that single blush of rain
in a hanging sky—

I would scour
a sea
to surface
that lifeless body—
drag all
the Atlantic
to find that corpse—

—just to breathe
a sigh of relief
that it
is not
my own.

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