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the truth about stars:
this morning near the moon
like a little sister
was really a planet
was really much bigger
than the satellite which warms
my morning walk.
The unchild in me
can barely imagine
the boy who sees
a frozen firefly
or the distant ship of Christ.
The rechild me remembers
miracles in bread:
the priest holds up the host,
and just like that
hundreds of us are fed
with what the nonchild knows
is not the flesh of Jesus.
And yet.
The over rational fat me
can tell you why
all those carbs that kill
were good for multitudes.
The under rational me
just wants a sandwich.
The shedding me can take
in more, and talk about silence,
revel in Presence, seriously play again.
