Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Here we are,

rapt, as if one
of us might whisper Lazarus
from the tomb of the throat,
that we might unbind
his wrists and feet
from the dark of the graveclothes,

that some housewife, some nightclerk,
some dapper-grey professor raising
a voice above the rabid
growls of the cappuccino machine
might call Christ out from the lamplight
to wander the rows of us --the loose
circles of us, listening-- and open
His psalms to bleeding: "Behold,
My hands..." Well,

I won't.

Not this time, by God.

Not me.

the posibilities of a verb
& a condition
when we feel alienated

(rapted by rapt! )

gracias for the poem!

superb...poetic indignation....the writer's promises to the universe.....