i. Wounded

His eyes pierce like splinters of the true cross,
     mine taking in this vision, exchanging
     caution at great cost for a glimpse of him,
     providence unforgiving, lining my
     sight with impenetrable irony,
     and yet original sin is not an
     issue with him, taking breath knowing my

     words are at a loss to appr(a)ise him, an
     apocryphal moment no damned prophet
     recalls crying out, nor evangelist
     recollects citing in his book, since this
     apparition did not happen, but is
     happening as I write it, so wrong to
     colour it fulfilled, to dispense with its

     sensation until it has been lived, I
     ride toward his version of heaven at
     risk of collision with its squadron of
     exterminating angels flying low
     on a mission of reconnaissance, to
     word with precision every buried
     heresy’s revived perversion, those eyes

                    ii. Blinded

filthying my mind to defy doctrine
     with devo(lu)tion to mysticism,
     I deny divine repercussions with
     their stoic guaranty of damnation’s
     eternal torment, turning away to
     embrace sacrilege in comparing him
     to what I do, claiming him at once my

     undertaker and my saviour, thunder’s
     billowing umbrage bending through holy
     obligation to exempt me from her
     storming repentance, light(n)ing my silent
     companion, electrifying this pen
     my imagination grasps, eschewing
     my tongue, paralyzing its movement, since

     by this man, by that starry messenger,
     I am too moved to tell him now just how
     severely I want him, risking, even,
     painful obscurity’s fiery hell,
     expression not a freedom, but a soul’s
     obligation, seeing and believing
     the impossible what defeats demons—

                    the difference between men & apostles.