hope of holiness. hope of wholeness.

i want you to stand like the man

who i drive past every day on my way

to what i want what i need

and he has his arms out

his fingers flared and waiting

for the world to change for him

for me to stop and begin to understand

he stands there every day and his face never changes

watching me and the horizon at the same time

as though i and it were one

that i was simply a momentary personification

of all the infinite possibilities of that blurred line

and as if he saw all of its faraway beauty crammed 

into my pulsing skin and at the corner of my mouth

where waits still that last step towards freedom

he does not want to take it

but stands still with his arms out and his face soft

in the sun which alternately strokes

and then beats against him

much as i do in my mind in my small hungry fury

that curses him as the disease and claims him as the cure

and finally collapses in my stomach weary and worn

from its own fists thrown against the floor

still he stands, so still it seems the wind itself

that sweeps all these things to the sides

the leaves and my hair tie together around me

to blind me and choke me and leave me 

with nothing to say to see

but he is not moved not swept away

still waiting for something to change

one day i will break and press my pale face

against that white shirt and cling to that smooth neck

and cry all the thousand fears that one day he would leave

till at last i am still and feel in him the bending

the impossible coming true and his arms around me

the church folk will gather and speak 

of miracles and vandalism

"look how the arms have moved

how his holy face once watching the sky

bends down now and gazes with a new look

how along the side of his cheek a marble tear lies

see these footprints that come

and none that leave, nothing here but a ring of keys

who can scry this mystery?"