Sunday, May 13, 2018

bike lane resurrection

He vanishes like ascension,
leaving into Resurrection,
like clouds melt into air.
Craning my neck
like men of Galilee,
I see just one footprint—
not Christ
or the prophet like Mohammed's—
just the fossil negative
of a boyish black Nike
stamped upon not
only my arms
which gesticulate in imitation,
my tongue,
who swirls new patois like pinot noir,
but burned into the hardest core of me,
the deepest space where binding,
keeping covenant
(with china cabinets and breakfast dates)
take place—
the deepest heart of me
where a new face lives:
intimately me, and I, his.

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