Adoptionism Vindicated
Gyorg sniggers from the depths,
hidden in a forest
of unyielding stalks—–
rejecting all sight
and light:
but his eyes adjust.
From the hilltop,
outside forsaken town,
the trees are begged to clear
so as to see the laughs of
the rolling earth
frozen in space,
not time.
Faith could move a mountain,
but it won’t.
And if the abyss around
which identity comports
was found filled——
even on a cloudy winter’s morn,
when the gray streets are
irrevocably empty,
and the universally chosen
stillness
relinquishes the geography——
I know you would dig it up again.
So, yes,
we can fathom how he felt
to leave his comrades
and away alone to the garden
to have the chill upon his skin——
but to love lack with
clarity such as his:
this is incomprehensible.
Though my deceitful despair
assembles the hands
, each night while I rest,
to arrange some new
unsolvable problematic,
the body adjacent conjures
an attempting chain:
But You Were Published Just Two Weeks Ago:
Two Weeks?
Two Weeks?
Lies, Fibs,
And Nonsense,
As If My Provincial Manners
Weren’t Born Till Yesterday
Or Tomorrow.