You say I shine like a rising sun.
But how can I trust you?
Your news comes to me second hand.
Through the hands of several dead scribes.
First let me join you at the Sea of Galilee
and stand at the shore and feel the wind
from the Golan hills stir up the waves
and watch you dance on the foam.
Or at the Dead Sea, let me watch
you sink beneath the still surface
and lie at the bottom like a shoe.
You say, Come now, these are tokens for children.
And what is the Dead Sea
but a salt lick for born-again tourists?
You say if I could see me through your eyes
the earth would slow and time would stop
and death would fall behind me
like a yellow line behind a speeding rear window.
But why should I believe you when
last night I heard Angel at the dumpster.
She was inside tearing open the plastic bags
looking for a can to crumple and collect.
Yesterday I tried telling her what you told me;
about her having a beautiful heart
if only she could see it;
and if she saw it she might crawl right out
of that skip into the womb of a new world.
She looked at me with sympathetic eyes
and said, How can I trust you?
Your news comes to me through a book.
First come help me with these cans.