No Pool of Siloam Here
The eyes of hurricanes he sharpens with
When turning looks to one who loves him. Storm
Occurs inside this heart which yearns. A pith
Of blankness made of iron not very warm
Is what he offers. Whirlwinds maybe, more
Like spawned tornados he refuses to
Acknowledge. At his granite-like cold core
He fires no flaming. Torch of gaslight blue
Has no effect on vacuums. His hair
Afloat as he walks past his lovers feels
A breeze but that is all. He’s like a mare
Out grazing. Only fenced out grass appeals.
A water spout evades a troubled sea.
Not even Christ could hope to make him see.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Sep 5, 2024 | UN |