by Alan King
The more I watch the news,
the more my country resembles
a biblical city destroyed by fire;
the more I think of those
who spat on the messenger
their God sent them. At the gates
of a temple called ?Beautiful,?
sat a blind man. How many of us
are him? Sometimes there?s no name
for what runs the streets with
misspelled picket signs and hate
as its bullhorn. Sometimes
what?s wrong with this life
could be an avalanche ready
to wipe us out. The only true Bible
might be your open arms. Your name
is a communion wafer on my tongue.
The only true psalm might be
what washes over us while
we sleep, your breath in my ears?
the sound in a shell.
Last updated September 27, 2022