You are slipping and I know too much to find you now. I have grown too broad, mustard gone all to seed and camels needle me. She gives me a wink and falls to her knees and the sky opens. I cannot follow. Balaam stands aside and waves me on with a mocking grin and I hear the charge come singing down the wire. I hear that chorus swell and ring in the morning; that once I strove to join. I rinse out the echoes and pull on sheep’s clothing.
Hand on the plow, hammer where the iron is hot, eye on the ball, take the shot, whistle, halftime. There’s a storm pooling overhead like an awakened animal, all skin and belly after the thaw but no one looked up. Take the wheel, Dorothy; there’s a twister up ahead and it’s my turn to ride. You know me from the telephone, from the radio, from her photo in the drawer by your bed that you never clean. I am the distance, I am the null return, the number you have dialed is no longer in service. Insert two quarters to continue.
Are angels only naive reflections of ourselves? I have put away childish things and replaced them with ghosts. Haunted, hunted, red-eyed and staring; I lay me down and pray to awaken before I sleep.