The divine exists
but not enough.
We keep resuscitating
that bleeding heart,
and it’s a bloody mess:
reviving compassion,
the only passion
that isn’t a con.
I’m all rational
until a car crash
carjacks my sleep,
skidding off a cliff,
shouting, praying,
and in the expanding
descent discover—
what hope remains
for any remains
recovered.
The dive is vast
and lasts
so long
it dissolves
into waking,
still hurtling,
still calling to Jesus,
as if I was
some Lazarus
needing a shake
to remember—what?
I remember:
how to be alive,
awake.
