preparatory requiem

I close my eyes, and look to the trees
I close my eyes to
Breathe.
A thousand visions and revisions,
fly past my sewn eyes.

Eyes that would not,
Could not
See what was below and above and beyond.
One deep breath, and we move on.

The woman told me there were no eyes here.
Yet in my mind's eye,
A thousand visions,
A thousand ribbons, rippling and lilting in the wind.
Exhaling air and dust.

Step.

Step.

Footsteps on the sand echo in the valley of my design.
Step.
I crane my head to see, but my eyes bring me only darkness,
shadows and visions.
Step.
"I am a prophet," I would say
as I'd claw frantically at my sockets.
Step.
"What art thou," I'd cry, "that usurp'st this time of night?"
I know not the needlework of my visions.
It was not of my design.
Yet all movement stopped.
"And here's no great matter," she'd sigh.
"But who will anoint me," I'd cry, "deny me and scourge me?"

Eyes sewn shut to the beauty before me, I groveled.
Eyes sewn shut to the hovel before me, I'd shudder.

"Who," I would cry. "Who?"
The crowd, in reply, spat: "he trusts in her, let her deliver him now!"

Curled up in my hammock, in utero,
She'd sing to me.
I didn't think she'd sing to me.

Laid out before the procession,
She'd lead them to me.
She'll lead them for me.