Cleansing Our Bibles

At the witching time I wake to find
what survived the day in fading dreams
that throw their shadows into distant light.

I eat nothing so that the pit in my stomach
can work its way into walk and talk
for my trip across the tight rope sky.

At the Jiffy Lube, a man with few teeth and a large smile
tells me he works 8 hours 7 days a week.
He's glad for Thanksgiving to come.

Once, at a laundromat, I accepted change from hands
with fingers cracked raw by chemicals.
He saw my horror and sighed.

If only I were stone I could endure not seeing.
If only I were a tree I'd know how to be.

The cold and bitter wind unweaves
a prayer's hem from my soul.
Let's write our own bibles,

revealing ourselves
to ourselves. We'll wash up clean
and remember to seek and erase the memory.

(c) copyright 2012 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.