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

About Good Friday

sitting in traffic, on the way
toward some Place that seems to be moving
away from us as we approach
like a date that never showed

unknown to us, we are always going
toward Places without purpose
that don’t mean, just briefly are;
showing us something
we can’t approach with our purposes
they’re like walled gardens
where you must be young and almost innocent;
passing through the gates we shed years like old clothes
until we’re all receptive twenty-somethings

not as at the office, bored
making what’s required, the lie of repetition
not what you would make if it were up to you
and knowing vaguely you aren’t
even about There

‘about’ as in meaning, or approximation
as in ‘nearby’ or ‘close’
understanding is a last thing we see
before someone closes our eyes
or so we hear; those who know
won’t say or can’t

we can suppose and might as well
so long as we want meaning now
Rapunzel in her tower, Eurydice in the underworld
some meanings are to die for; they have no preliminaries
open the package, read the directions
we have to let it come to us complete
a thief in the night leaves no presence

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