I realized in a whisper that
I was north of God
By a question of leagues.
Or it was east,
Or south, or unending west.
No, I whisper back, it is north,
Truly north, as true as
A blind painter.
I begin to beat back
The brush of the trail, and
The sky hangs overhead like
The feet of martyrs,
Those heavens gaping like
A trench behind me—
Behind us, all the others also
Plunging south to return
God’s parry. We hope to see
In the seeping mists, but
We know that
Our handmade yokes weigh down
Our lowered heads like altar boys.
We trusted that
We are rippling in unseen waters, and
We wander down Heaven’s compass.
Photo by Ruben Christen on Unsplash
