It is almost Christmas, and I have decided
not to subscribe. Meanwhile, my father is entering
Heaven. He has come as a foreign representative
to a Christian country. The gates close slowly.
Hereafter, his address is a Biblical secret.
But you believe he hovers there, you can almost
see him, in the mind a statue entitled
“He Goes to His Reward” will seem conclusive.
Eventually, the statue is believing itself.
And the geography, oh the whereabouts of belief,
is a mixture of alphabets, unrolling and unfolding
from all directions. The word is our landscape,
it will never leave us. Looking for a promise,
we have crossed the Great Divide and the oceans
and stood for the weddings of our objections
though they cancelled themselves and departed.
Like a garden, we cannot contain ourselves.
In a company of friends, I “can” what I “may.”
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