Saturday, December 1, 2012


Bonds are blessings to us, chains
like choicest fruits; we have glutted
our souls and our body, yes, feasted
on fruitless attempts of these men
to subdue us. We love watching them

try. We love

the eyes of this man through whom
we watch; we have strengthened
his arms; the sinews of his thighs
strain sublimely as a horse’s legs.
This and more have we done

for him. We wait

for nothing, our minds far
too full from the bliss of these mountains,
this moment, these bleeding hands
through which we have conquered, the nose
by which we know the sharp air

and breathe. The dust

and water of this humble place are good and true.
We run them through ten feeling fingers.
We rub sand and press silt
into our temples and into our neck till
the old man’s raw, is raw

and nearly blind. Rumors

have reached his ears,
by which we hear.
They say
the Son of David’s coming.
The man shudders as we think

of Hell, that bodiless

the Son will surely send us home to.
We pray;
we pray He has some mercy on us