What would it be to move beyond
our need for angels? Just to relax
might take us a century. To like
that sensation, longer. We’d understand
and calculate the logarithms of grace
to easy solutions in our sleep.
Not to need messages about
but to be, instead, a literal place
we have a map for? Because it’s here:
a murderous waste ground. To be free
to gather bouquets of nettles? to be
those passionate kisses? that hot pain?
Not to mind hurting because you see
Christ bringing cool dock leaves of mercy.