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The Truth of Scripture

Sunlight dapples on a horse’s flank.

A virga

Hangs in the vast western sky like Heaven’s gate.

A virga hangs in the sky like an embrasure.

Little by little the porch empties of light

And one reads until each turned page is a blank.

Night, parenthetical, is not the subject.

One reads until each page is blank,

keeps reading,

As if the truth of scripture will be revealed.

Night — an unstable, volatile amalgam —

Gives way to day and words emerge from the page,

As opaque as ever, riddling, random.

One looks up and the horse is gone.

What transport

It offered, now absent.

So one returns to the page, studies what’s there.