VISITATION BY MIRACLES
A night train grinds
The edges of our understanding.
We make light of it, thinking
It is only a small disturbance,
Something we can overcome,
A brightness there in that late occurrence.
We are given to know many things.
Why I cry being so much different
Than why you cry and how would
We know what fills the heart or leaves
It open for visitations by miracles.
Somewhere it comes together, where
The tracks seem to converge in a distance.
But that is a place we cannot reach
Given all things from sleep and dreams,
To heated arguments and cursing at one another.
Eventually the sounds recede, a long
Hollow road into a further darkness.
We essay to bring songs, some kind of gift
To it, It remains an unknown god,
A blistering of angels just before consciousness
Decides we have had enough and leaves.
The lights come on.
They insist we move toward them.
We cannot recall that everything
Around them is without sound.
We follow them. Sometimes they are people,
Sometimes they are a fulfillment upon
The spine, enticing and crippling simultaneously,
As if it were a dance we learned
In grammar school between naps,
Between learning and listening to stories.
Sometimes we can go no further.
Everything is pain. Everything has finer
Clothing than we could ever wear.
We can barely stand to look at one another.
We keep shadows as guests.
Night after night they tell us
Beautiful tales of death and suffering.
Knowing they are lies.
We believe them.