In the air
Some never doubt; their faith
inhabiting their loneliness,
the trick being not to move a muscle,
hugging their knees, wrapped
upon the kernal of themselves.
Some always doubt; never alight;
never ensnared, they ask
their lonely selves - rarely God.
Only when their throats are broken;
too exhausted to jump
to another conclusion
do they settle near the brink
only to soon flap away again
at a handclap starting, flushed
in the air, in the air, in the air
where hovers the illusion of autonomy.
O child of God, there's no rest
except in death and surrender.