This Blind Man You Do Not Have To Tell
This blind man you do not have to tell
When the Christ is near
I have found him without prodding stick
Preceding the echo of my feet
I am aural, what I see not I hear
The rain like an army terrible
The calvary of water pounding
The mountain into white dust of mist.
I have studied the charactter of every sound
Listening for her feet
And beg not
To be led, nor of form and figure to eat
The dry essence of empty heartedness.
I know the vowels now
Of silhouettes, promises
Masked with passions pernicious
The wounds that cannot heal.
But always in the nail bitten hands
Of the coming Christ so long delayed
My destiny safe is stayed.
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