We have gone to great pains translating the universe
into a forgettable vernacular. Life speaks to us
in the New International Version
so that the day lacks a certain cadence, the night
any discernible yearning. A grocery list
of mysteries is written down each morning.
Idols fall like old argyle socks.
And then, one rain sodden rush-hour,
I see him nailed to the back wall of the last carriage,
like twilight at midday, the faint
apparition of a miracle, easy to miss
but for those who catch it they cannot turn away
a Messiah of befuddlement, beautiful
amongst the mass of pleasant and amenable
ugliness. We are given a parable without meaning
anything more than its intention
to offer us the sensation of understanding
what will always remain beyond our grasp.
Something magnificent and indeterminable. Not an answer
but a much more interesting way to phrase the question
no one else would think to ask.