It’s drifted south
and leaned a little west.
The haunting once prized as intuition, or even faith –
Pushed away, disenchanted,
But not destroyed.
Because we can see it settling again
In the guts of a growing,
dead certain devout.
There is no destruction when it comes to spirit,
There can be no destruction when it comes to spirit,
From which the ghost wafts onward,
Toward the souls of some new Bethlehem –
A recent report from the Washington Post indicates that over sixty percent of Americans believe in the literal truth of Noah’s Ark. Contrary to popular belief, this number has grown in all demographics since 1970, including that of the self-professed “non-religious”
Intellects might some coming day
Curb their doubt, breathe deeply, and pray
For the chance to prepare a safer dwelling
In which faith will stay.
His snout is the soft, black mushroom
and mucus-mingled dust
that crusts it over.
No telling particle must escape his notice,
No false trace may stray him.
Peeping from his brown, fleshfolded face,
The pooch’s view has cataracted over the several Springs
Through which his project still draws him.
Not a big deal, though,
Since it’s the scent that matters,
The ground, reliably known before his lowered face.
Toward what this trail might tend – uncertain,
Though certainly something worth his while.
The tracker loathes distractions, abstractions,
Having even snapped once at the fingers
Of a caretaker who no longer bothers
To beckon him into the warm house at nightfall.