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.