And to think that –
justice is just beyond the reach of God!
As to let the surgical knife of Jesus
pass vacuously through the skin of the earth
without drawing a single drop of blood;
and to let the cut heal seamless and rare
without even regard to antiseptic
or the least infection of truth.
Then at the beginning the fault was his; and at the end,
for have we not centuries a-plenty
to regret this implantation of soul and mind?
Ours is a quiet universe
in a quiet run of universes;
but there are hollerer places, and hallower spaces,
on which the transient rich can pay a call.
We were tins down bellowing altogether
in a row of lounge chairs,
discussing the fallen angels and
angles of sky’s reflective roof.
Like my place here – no better than the rocks –
who by clever design pass themselves off as living
or they which know themselves never to have been alive.
by token run.
Gathered Masai red
dairy warm and luscious as
tempting as barbeque sauce.
Clouds which dreary-lay the
paint-stained sky … prod
senseless hands to rush
Envision to gather through foggy shield,
though not a window breath of an alarm … fool!
tool that I aim:
who weighs the oncoming traffic, in ways without,
come some less fuel and little recourse
due the candle-born
with wick snuffed out,
forbade his close side-turning
on an open drawbridge.
Can the lending of heart ever finance faith,
or is the little that works just the most who travail?
Accustom me now to your prison routine
where future trends
bring fellowship to inmates and visitors
both caught like gangsters and teenagers
in a criminal family way.
Dr. Walter Boswell