Stints: He Takes the Responsibility Upon Himself    
 

The bus is chugging me down to the dock.
I feel it swaying back and forth.
I’m doing time on 30th street.
I know it. Right now.
Are we all a valley of dry bones,
Doing time? Right now?

The Blarney train clocks tunnel and cloud.
I’m tracing the lights swinging back and forth.
My C Minor chord dangles midway from ceiling.
I sense it. Almost.
Are all of us sparks along the tracks,
Bright rivers out of His side? I see Him.

He turns them into crushed epiphanies.
Rays pierce our history’s gloomy trance.
Should I ask Habakkuk to tell the meaning?
Of horns on the altar,
Impaled Sacrifice,
The infinitude of Holy Blood?

The bus turns the corner at 30th Street.
The driver brakes and my body slides.
My hours feel strong at the end of summer.
The shadow towers whisper to me. Right now.
I cannot hear them, so I have to believe.
I have to trust the Twins’ ghostly stints.

Horns coming out of His hands.
Beams riven forth from His side.
My gurney parks within His heart.
I can touch where He sings Himself accountable.
Roman spikes—like the hiding of His flesh-torn thunder—
Are the lightning rods of God.

 

 

Copyright 2007 Robert E. Romanelli