OF THE FUTURE
I displace you, Lord, by being here?
Does my body crowd out your body?
Afflict me with Attention Surplus Disorder
so I can see what is in front of my face.
sparrows dart and mar each other's
minor voices. The imperial River rots
like a stone. Who arranged this barrage
of applause and decay? Ancient of Days, be with me.
panhandles my eyes. Black night licks at my song.
The catalpa tree ponders its canny name.
Lord, move, just this once, yourself out of the way
so I can see the endless spaces you fill without you in them.
mercy, hope, faith, compassion, love:
a golem made of grief?
I feel his greased limbs circling
in my limbs. And then I don't feel him.
live world finding a choir is a soul.
The soul is very small: it fits in the hand like a hazelnut.
When I die I will discover
there are people in the world.
Copyright c 2002 by the Literary Estate of Tom
Andrews. May not be reproduced without permission.