The Pilgrimage: Part 32 / Phillip Neal Tippin
In the lukewarm weather
Of our time,
Together we’ve forgotten
How to bide.
What do I know of thee
Except what I have heard and seen
And tasted and touched, and,
Yes, in the touching touched.
Seem to spend my spontaneity on sin
Rather than on Form’s long obedience.
Abashed to spread things
So unasked, presume
To poor out the unpopular
Upon the mass praxis.
Getting above myself
Trying to go beyond the garden
Where the gift of fruit
Is something only to be imagined.
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