poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

After Easter


salvation offered needs another name

whose syllables like fingers search the patch

of mud we trample daily as unchanged


not needing labels useless loss nor gain

part land part water bits of sand a thatch

salvation offered needs a better name


whatever falls will do it’s all the same

the law bites us the outlaw it can’t catch

the mud we trample daily is unchanged


our maps and charts are useless in the main

they can’t tell salt from silt or dot from dash

salvation offered needs another name


a wounded heart can hear what’s all but plain

we’re brutish, short-lived, anxious, clueless, rash

the mud we trample daily is more changed


a backlight daily offered glimpsed as pain

at first then rising morning without ash

salvation offered has a nameless name

the mud we’ve trampled unseen seen again

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