a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness


I have my suspicions
that today isn’t today
but rather a scene
in a story.
Not a rendition, like we
tend to make into novels.
Not an obscene version
like a sitcom.
But a sure enough scene
which serves a plot
which goes on forever
yet remains coherent,
a horizon unreached
but picturesque.

The story is not all birds
and April weddings.
It is funeral parlors and
bone cancer, too.
But those are mere scenes
which serve the plot, too,
and they cannot overtake
the story being told.
They are texture.

The characters we call us
do not all end up in Eden.
Some do, though.
And thus we will spend
our scenes resting on
hope paid in full.

Ephphatha ("Be Opened")

Patients Unaware