Morning aches the day from the hollows
of the bed, yearning, and you lay, lingering
the crept upon dreams of stillness
that stood like that young German translator,
fresh from college that you never knew, but wished
you had when she came unbidden, like Jesus
through the locked door—you swore you knew
them both despite the plain impossibilities
of common knowing. Gnosis is the word
that toys along the trails of your brain,
casting sparks among the synapse
like the Fourth of July child waving reckless
sparklers in both hands, a dervish
of delight in the spinning chaos, filling
the hollow spaces with quiet explosions,
soothing the aches of lingering yearning,
translating Jesus into possible prayer.
