I smear my skin with schisms of
the songs I heard at night,
tales of a God who couldn’t bear
to make the unexpressed. My skin
is pocked with signs of built
sense. I did not put it there. I
am not meant to keep it away.
I’m just the one who drags it out.
There is a limit seen
in the offspring. It was a flood.
Harvest that. Of course joy is found
in our doubt.
I am a son of Jacob. Do you dare
to speak of visions past horizons
when you don’t see the yard?
I know when the plants rise.
My scene is past the line
dividing day from night,
in the garden, in the daily.
Look there for rectitude.
The holy wears a smock.