As water about to boil is cloudy with intent and heat
I sometimes quake at the appearance of the world about me,
a numenous dread of power unshown.
perhaps a brief moment of spiritual vanity,
to pretend to a sense of things far larger than me
something beneath and beyond and
written of as fact in a thousand books and holy writ.
Ours is a body of time,
some live within the veins and organs of the body
ranging over the vast skin of a penumberal kingdom within
still, the thin line is woven through my thoughts
by ghosts and proper souls alike.
And time through arteries and organs in my body
spins and wobbles
weaves and feasts
on a hundred intentions unfollowed each day.
Having arrived at every decision through care
and a certain amount of divine indifference,
God's shoulder remains a place to lean upon-
from sufficient to unnumbered to overrun;
we recognize ourself again
as if from the outside.