The Twin

a poem

O God of mercy,

Count me not among the sons of Dan;

Though I am not worthy to stand in the House of the Poor.

Long ago did a nobleman’s son pass down the flame of fire unseen

To where the Plowman’s furrows now run north to south, into the yawning deep (what is truth?).

Stock of one of these am I,

Whether by blood or by adoption, I could not say.

Hark! The census year is at hand,

As spoke the Evangelist: the Sea of Galilee is the Sea of Tiberias.

And a sovereign beggar chanced upon the plans for the Ark

In the ashes of a dead language,

Under winged canopy,

The air’s fullness a supper bell chiming ageless—

This one I saw entering the nave of surest hope through the ear of the heart.