Even in a choir these days you can always tell
which throat is mine – it’s the one
shot through with an arrow
(like the piercing of a heart)
thick with blood, sounding less and less true,
moving toward a graveyard silence.
I’m tired of singing, of telling, advocating,
arguing. Only my mind still wants to argue.
My hands are done with finger-pointing;
my heart weary of rebuttals.
(To disagree is so . . . disagreeable!)
My eyes want only to read –
read the hearts of others and find them free
of any blame or error on my account.
O child of God, how peaceful it is when your heart
goes for a long, brave ride and your mind takes a backseat.