with a great guitar leant over His shoulder
while I work my tiny keyboard or sleep
with my tiny pillows, and He begins to
play with deep handfuls and warm waves:
a cosmic clawhammer cutting the
common gathered up in ruins in His arms,
so my dry-flushed spirit can sing the
simple gospel of Jesus, not withered by
any body or vessel until it’s upsprung like
a mystic arbor and tunes to an undying,
but autumnal, sound.