Читать книгу Jesus - David Craig - Страница 11

And it’s happening to all of us.

We get up each morning

to see what the mirror’s been up to,

move through the seas of our flesh—

which ain’t too happy about it.

Well, let that be.

They are the world and all of its woes:

neighbors, garbage men, late again.

None of us ever expected this,

the quiet rebellion, one cell at a time.

(And rebels never know

where they are going, do they?

That’s part of the charm: trying

to picture an end their new order

can never create.)

Here, though, I saw him on Facebook,

in his rocking chair: birthday, snappy

shirt beneath the sports coat,

Madonna House north woods porch.

Some people shouldn’t leave.

It’s really that simple.

There should be, instead, a field

of statues: folks just like them,

all life-sized, not on pedestals,

but in the middle, moderate to high grass,

flowers there, their favorite books, pencils—

no sign telling you how to get there!

I don’t want to go,

but you can count me as a breath

who came after.