Inflated, my lungs paused
              and held their
              capacity,
as I looked down

at God. Before
an image returned to me
a crowd crossed
              between us
and we were delayed.

Spotted Deer
              and her grandson
Mike passed over my path.

She stopped and pulled

her torn dress
              over her shoulder
its leather ties, useless
as words.

Her words had
              evaporated
                            into steam
that filled the missionary
with power

to save her.
It was no use.

Not hymn nor rod
              nor stern
hand could save this
pre-destined girl.

Her hand cupped
              Mike's and
they passed past whispers of

his arrangement.
              It was words God wrote,

or told them to write,
or inspired them to write
              with his blood

 or jugs
              overflowing with
              wine, that
this lover of men
              was doomed. Anyway

his grandmother holds
him close to
              balance
              the limp
he's had since

his neck snapped. They greet
              Dr. Burns, whose
chest is hollow where
                            the bullet
              passed through.
                            The bullet

saved a child
              who missed
an appointment with
              God that day.

What sews

lids shut with our
              own eyelashes and
make us forget we are
              useless

as words,
              mispelled and
fragmented, until
              even God is
unfamiliar

with their meaning; A
              translation
that smothers reason
              blue and limp, making
each man prophetic?

What fills God's
              hand so full
he has no room
              for sinners? Still,

              The child screamed
loud when it escaped
              its womb...
              as though
              its first
              breath of air
              felt as true
              as my exhalation.