not the one in heaven, but
the one who writes, your words
smooth, aerodynamic skimming
over the waters of my heart,
then sinking. But the mind,
tentative & shy, counts the excited
verb, the stagnant noun, the rhythm
of a sentence; hides its questions.
So long, the eyes have wandered
many pages like inconstant men;
the corkscrew of the heart opens
every sealed-up bottle, drinks it.
Mr. Creator, master of the arts
of emotions, telling, choosing
the perfect stone, the moment
wherein flawless water propels
the Word into the future.