My Amen Is Fixed

Food nourishes the prayerful and the blind. This day no mourning is proper, but tilted. Streaming video is no comfort when the cold howls outside. Where are you going with this? Lead on lead on, you farcical clown. Makeshift shanties will suffice when cold is not remorse, and video streams into the window. Bring up a zephyr from the south to ease this chill. My, my sweet prince who sings to heaven— Merrily we dance all day then freeze at night. The cold is evermore, evermore. Tying bubbles to a trampoline is hopeless, remorseless. Evermore they sing, and nobody knows the proper tune. Exhume the day from night And peek through the slit of dawn. The cold is evermore, evermore. To face it will crust the cheek like ice And bruise the spine with grace, But my Amen is fixed, terminal. Jesus will write you in his book with blood-ink, And we must drift that way like a leaf blowing in the cold wind-- heartbroken.