You peel open my chest–
how beautiful, Lord–
You turn this rotten apple,
to color.

It's as if You slid a silk sheet over my chest,
or placed Your big palm over my hunched back;
or kissed my knees after their knelt espousal.

Now that I've pulled out the needles,
or that I've quit tracing the EKG,
I don't know where to dip my pen in.

I am a grave poetic hen
That lays poetic eggs
And to enhance my temperament
A little quiet begs.

We make the yolk philosophy,
True beauty the albumen.
And then gum on a shell of form
To make the screed sound human.

I'd like those passing trees to be my life.
Like a child who traces the contour of nature,
as they whoosh by the window,
on the backseat of a car.

I'd like someone else to drive,
to see one-fifty meters ahead, all the time.
I'd like the sunshine to toast my rested face,
as I head somewhere, always.

And sleep as the miles go by,
as the miles,
miles go by.

I see artistry in the way these branches bend and twirl.
The abundant bough goes naked.
I see there is artistry here.