The Pilgrimage, Book II: Part 5 / Phillip Neal Tippin
I’m afraid we’ve made
Only half pagan
As the conversion
Still takes sides.
At the heart of the garden
That the green leaves might not
Draw me like water
From a black pool’d well
Until Your face is seen
Ringed in sky blue
Light on the face
Of this little deep.
Grant the desire’s despair which
The Maker’s placed for a return.
Despite the lostness of the eyes
With blacklight poured back on sight,
It’s hard to hide from the physical dark,
And the beating iambs of one’s heart.