The Real and Divine
Oh, reckless joy! The man sits barefoot in the long fire of his life. The man, who at times has been
shaken loose with God's embracing silence. He has howled at wisdom, intoxicated on Grace's red wine.
For whom but Divine could ever hang Stars, on nothing but thinnest of fishing line?
He shakes, pulls on a jug of fermentation; he has found no salvation.
An Angel nearby starts to cry.
Thinks, "Man can love a jug more than I.
The Angel sighed, and spoke, "I am right here"
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