Headed south
It’s like standing
on the north pole –
every which way I
turn, I’m headed south.
Saying Your name is
like stacking sandbags
along the river’s
edge before the expected crest
or, wading
afterwards through cornfield rows
flooded
chest-deep. It’s like
the peal of a bell
in a piney woods church
no one attends
anymore.
Headed south and I can get any color
I want as long
as it’s black.
The river is motionless,
the old man says,
but, the bridge doth flow.
That makes for a
rough crossing.
Once I leave the
bamboo cage, I am forever
outside of it,
headed south; down the hill,
across the tracks,
into the open country
of a vast, high,
flooded plain.
O child of God, there’s
only one freedom
and you are
countless lifetimes away from its gate.
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