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Midwestern Raptures

ISSUE:  Winter 2004

Black mite over the page, furious meander
    of a period untethered.
Black ant over my toes
        lifts by chambers like a lock.

Simple hydraulics, says my friend Simeon,
    out-hauling the ineffable.
Water is not water.
        That’s how He walked His walk.

Faith works by metaphor, carnivorous.
    The bread is flesh;
stones are “fleeced with moss”
        and therefore sheep

in Wordsworth’s example,
    and can’t be parsed into tenor or vehicle.
The light of the moon is the light of the sun.
        You can’t unfasten shine—

ride whatever arrives.
    Bird shits not an inch from me.
Something in that tree wants in on this story.
        The book’s open so the mite

and ant alight while we doze at the feet
    of the Savior among collegial tulips.
Enter Girl with Flashcard—What is religion?
        An almost feasible question the day

before graduation.
    What’s copied on the other side?
We’ll rise like insect apostles, I pray,
        dispel our scrawling and all false gospels

to meet in the sweet by and by
            where we go without saying.


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