And now, not night, not day.
Something ignited just here,
under the eyelids, stays chilled.
Chill in the marrow of the chest,
legs, arms, the forehead.
And the heart – bird – at rest . . .
a man, not man, not beast,
gesturing         above
all that is earth and clumsy
above                 even a steeple
a shadow, visiting the surface
like a moth, a name you would find
in the good book           a man
not man, not                  beast like
a creature with dusty wings,
a moth of a man
a bat of a man
who can never hear this world
or smell it circling him,
or touch it as it reaches
through the air              trembling
to touch             to trace
such contours                the terrible
shadow of his path        pointing
without hand      speaking without tongue.
You remembered me, oh Lord,
and sent me an angel whose face
stings me, whose sad heart
hangs its shadow, like the scroll
of a terrible book, upon the branches
of my belief.