Saturday, August 25, 2012

Headed south

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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