The last of nothing drifts by.
All of space is now occupied.
We are now ready to receive
The Holy Spirit. It does not
Come as tongues of flame,
But occupies the cells of the body
Like crowded subway cars at night,
Full of dozing riders and people
Reading books as if their life depended on it.
We cross the tracks carefully.
We are unable to recognize anyone
We pass. Balloons of vision lift
From the clouds of people, rise up,
Are lost in a reaching of hands to grasp
The colorful strings dangling from them.
The gift of tongues is ours once more.
Touch our hand and you shall be healed.
No one believes this to be true. We buy food,
Giving away bars of chocolate and plastic
Wrapped sandwiches. Some shed tears,
Thanking us as we move forward.
Times like this will come again.
The seas lash the shores. Tornados
Sweep the kingdom. Fire consumes
All that is left. We suffer fools
With their predictions and admonitions.
This is indeed pentecost. We can not name it other.
Illuminated display boards at the exits flash
Our names and show grainy images of what
We are supposed to look like. We lose
Ourselves in the crowd, the buzz of understood
Conversations in every language of the world.