by Bruce McRae
From the White House to the outhouse.
From the wasteland to the Holy Land,
and all points in between.
Behind the fugitive moon, defying symmetry.
On a path through the dappled forest,
leading from the whorehouse to the slaughterhouse,
blood on our shoes and in our eyes,
blood under our fingernails,
its red veil shadowing our faces
while the angels come to count our toes.
Before the soul is allowed to enter
that crowded room dubbed paradise.
Along the towpath, a donkey braying
at the heft of contraband and cargo.
Leaving gravity’s rapacious clutches,
the stars our destination, the moon a target,
something to be longed for on cloudy nights,
its light infecting well water,
its light a beacon for the soul undone
by life and living. Fully in the here and now,
a momentous event thought so important
you just missed it.
© 2021 Bruce McRae All rights reserved.