What numbness will I be
when angry swelling subsides?
I cannot grieve for the sting;
I cannot raise my tongue in hopeful song—
My sweat is a parted sea parody:
Moses crossing, unpursued
in great self-symbolism.
Such is the sorrow of nature, beaten out;
a god-hand, lobbed to break the pooling instinct—
leaving us with little left to call ourselves.
We watch him bear the bible
like a cross along the path—
as if to pave chaos
and usher freedom to slaves.
Arriving alone at derelict sanctuary
Looking back, pleased, upon his works.