487 Readings


Jesus visits me as a giant
bald eagle might.

His golden talons clasp my shoulders.
He lifts me high above the neighbors,

above poverty, above the flashing gaming palaces.
I whisper to myself the good deeds He’s seen me do,
imagine the colors of their corresponding jewels.

Then the curved beak lowers, brushes
my earlobe, You let me lift you up like this,
yet blush at the sound of my name.

From that height, the city seems a puzzle
yet to fall apart. The horizon, a fading
halo, and in the toy trees

crows in black frocks hunch over
seeds they gnaw upon, then
drop to the miniature street.

Posted 12/31/11
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