His Theology
and the winter sun
came up once more
sweeping past spring
into summer over
the Eno river,
over the silver trees, over
between him, and her
who wished for a chickadee
to appear with her haloed crown
but lost instead in the pain;
its solidity and precision
to fill a lot of space
he knew,
what other men know
about worship and
the things he enjoyed to touch:
decorated hair
concerned face
concentric breasts
thighs
he knew,
the truth about himself and her, and
this very moment;
the pain that drives women
to visions, to search
small rocks
and into the water,
and sometimes other men;
these walks where
there is no return
he knew,
these women, this pain . . .