- Vol. 03
- Chapter 11
HumilityIt’s darker than the bowels
of a blind man’s eyes.
The rain has fallen like a kiosk
worn around man’s body
like a crown – around
instead of upon –
and the songs of a silent calendar
hang on a spotless wall
finding rhythm with the lightning
outside. My stable is a pile of hay
with an unsuspecting hair of gold
spun into an incorrigible mess.
I have been given a needle:
the eye the size of a passage
through which humility may walk.
Search for the strand
and stitch my sight to devotion
in exchange for human robes.