A child, age four
points at a man
he doesn't know,
Asks his mom,
"Is there more?
He's so bright."
And it's true
no shadow shows
behind, though the sun
Shines in front
from the West.
Best hurry in
To pray. He'll hear
from so far away.
What does he think
As all our dreams
mutter by in a stream
from which none dare drink?
A tree, a pine,
millennia past once stood
where now a streetlight
Collects pushers, men
hawking pills.
It is so still. Blood will
Congeal and the air
halt, sacrificial spot:
altar on which he stands.
The man's time
is now theirs. A crease
quits his brow,
Renders it clear
and smooth as the day
the news said he was born.
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