You've carried around the reproach
long enough in all this brackish longing
until the ghastly broadcast
permeates the nostrils,
every sensibility,
and offers divination
as a solution to the question
of where the soul belongs;
a sacrifice.
You've carried around the reproach
in a wheelbarrow
because the sin you found
is too heavy to lift
even with a strong back
pleading to be yoked to God.
The angels have given up their vigil
and have gone back to their gardens
to tend the sweet lavender of slumber
and to press you into deeper service
once you finally awaken
and the inquisition of the mind
yields to the wisdom of the heart.
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