I see it seemed obvious: four days, and some man cups
his hands around a god, eager
to prove his miracle. Sure, wake the dead,
there’s always more room in the din.
You can prophesy all you need; on the unmade bed
are all the stranger’s clothes laid out.
Some things get buried deeper than a body,
with no point of entry marked.
Heavy oiled cloth fell on my waking skin: the dark
pulsing of a world
as I geolocate my footprints, and retread.
I still miss the interim: that feeling like a
a morning between stations.
Soft lights and bells sounding
as if through water.