They are chatting. He pats him
on the shoulder. He is cold.
They walk away.
She is sitting scrolling. No
one bothers her and she does not
bother them. She has many,
family and friends, who love her.
And she loves them.
People are shopping, not stealing.
They want to look good and want
something nice for their children.
They are not blowing up buildings
or running cars into people.
They are just trying their best
as almost everyone always does,
as here the frost melts
and sheep eat grass
in a place where it already has.
The other way than backward
once I’ve turned
from dusk to Sanctus
and her silent
You won’t be passing out stones
or scorpions or wasps on the other side
of apples. You won’t be not holding
the ladder when he climbs,
or not looking when she crosses.
You’ll not wonder when you should know,
for you’ll know, though you’d rather not.
You’ll know and do what you should do
because you are who you are,
the man, at last, you were meant to be.
We used to speak of the thingification
of grace, which was a bad thing,
but now I think love,
to use its proper name,
is indeed a stuff,
weightless and invisible,
we can get our hands on.
It’s from where everything always is
and is flowing,
if we let it,
through us to all the rest
to give us and it
Better this theology,
wrong as it may be,
than me and my will
to obey the law repeatedly.