The mind wanders a winter field.
The sun a distant glow.
A dying star. Heaven somehow

only a well-lit disappointment.
I hear a voice: Perhaps yours. Reading
a sentence from an English textbook,

telling the story of a farm town,
houses arranged like the Lord’s
set of toys. Surely, there’s a reason

why I’m here. A lost little piece
of paper, with a list of those things you do.
In a haystack in some barn, in a town

we can call whatever we want.
How you tie your hair into buns
when you go out. How you kneel

and pray for better weather.
How you plan on keeping warm
hands walking a windy avenue.

Here I am, looking under the hay
and looking again. A short gospel
in your storybook, open

only in the city of your sleep.
Not searching for a particular thing.
Looking away, breathing,

then looking back at you.
Reciting a poem
that changes a little each day.

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