March 8, 2011


We quickly forgot
The taste of Bread and fish
When the crowd sat in even rows
And went home filled,
Singing down the hills.

Irascible in our flurry,
We rushed at the One who slept,
Languorous, below,
As if storm were but arms
To rock a cradle.

We turned from the stranger
Who confronted us on the road
Discoursing in the appalling metaphor
On the firstfruits of the dead.

Afterwards we scurried to our boat
To fish some time, expecting nothing,
Desiring nothing but dark,
As if body as we knew it
Were an end term

Come morning, relentless
He stood on the shore,
And again we did not recognize Him---
As if our death and this sweat
Were preferable to eternal life.

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