The Preacher on The Other Side of My Window Pane
At his farthest touch, beyond
A cold, translucent window pane,
Smudged, scratched, etched by those
Who passed this way many times ago
He bends, squints to peer past
Diaphanous curtains. At curious figures
Moving, gamboling; busy on the other side
At what he doesn’t know. Or why.
Echoes off the wall of his chest,
Rhythms. Blood beats Thumping, Pumping
In bursts up through chutes
Toward the residence of his soul
And around, down, back to
His center seat of existence. And those
Reverberations travel outside his border,
Beyond his body’s jurisdiction
And on. Like a smell, fresh or foul, remembered,
Found, among broken shards in a melon field
Culled in summer; Spoiled remnants of fruit
Harvested, left for those compelled to survive.
The taste on his tongue, sweet or bitter or bland
And the linger afterwards, ineffable as a memory,
Concrete as a Soldier’s memorial,
Wispy as a fragrance butterflied on the air.
His aged sight, blurring the form of People,
Movements, appearances and disappearances,
Their existence other, separate, forever apart
From his body and imagination; from his unit,
But the outlines of worlds remain
Among the scattered, overturned furniture of memory,
Like the memory in a dream from
Other dreams, fleeting misunderstandings
Beyond the studies of science, literature,
Beyond our own sculpted rock,
Beyond these days,
Numbered and Checked off.
And if, as he says, he’s not bound alone by physicality,
He asks, how can the Unknowable be?
No matter what and where it be. And now
You know I know he believes