I am the ribbon in the typewriter
(near as to anything else), the lead in the
pencil,
ink in the pen, scattered pixels on the screen.
You
write these poems. You ask the
questions,
provide the answers, make comments and
observations.
The boundary between us then is vague,
shallow and negligible, only apparent
as I write it down, sit and wonder
where I’m being led, what will be asked
and said in a verse ironically tagged
with the nom-de-plume of my ignorance. O Beloved!
How You shake me up! Rattle my bones!
O child of God, to write these poems is a breathless
dip
into the depthless pool of His mystery.
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