Sunday, December 21, 2014


I don't know what to make of it,
         or where to turn.
Depletion and disjointedness:
       the indexes of middle-age.

These too:
       The tired eyes.  The over-indulged belly.
The limitations felt and no longer trespassed:
       Weak knees, aching backs.
The first failings of the memory -
               a name
          that tumbles
               like a marble inside my mouth and fails
                      to fall out.
All proof the tide has turned,
         and will not go back.

All that is left is
     the denouement:
             The other side of possibility;
        foggy and confused;
                 the facing of sin
                      no longer as enemy to be vanquished,
        but the steady presence,
                      the partner sitting on the sofa across the room,
                           arms folded,
                      knowing and fully known;
                           and despite my protests,
               now part of me in ways I cannot know.

So infected, I come to see,
my struggles not will make me free.

Marked as I am, there is only
        the waiting now.
   No commodity can save me.
   No move to a nicer neighborhood.
   No putting my kids in the right schools.
   No resolutions.
   No new job.

No mortal help will walk into the room,
            only what might come by transfiguration,
    and grace,
          like celestial heralds under the cold, open sky.

Only the possibility of a greater power,
            lifting up within and beneath my bones,
                   of a story tied deep into the fabric of creation,
           Apocalypic tales
                   dancing in old men's heads
           Strange visions
                   of risings,
                   and glorious tellings
                   beyond all hope,
          that second life
          that will not wane
               nor tumble
                    nor be snuffed.
Only life,
        complete and full.