PENTECOST
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.
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