POEM: Poetry As Religion

There is a stillness in humans that can unnerve poplar leaves. That entreats us to surrender. That avoids the velvet space, the terror that can be heard in voices, voices that bubble like air in a water cooler. It is religion for those who cannot stand large crowds, for those who prefer the comfort of pajama bottoms and sweatshirt over Sunday bests. Baptism is by silence. A tattoo is burnished into writer-skin by needles of language. Fire consumes wood. Water extinguishes fire. The hollow sound of pen, the clackety-tack of a keyboard, is Latin. Writing as an earthmoving tool uncovers prayer. It is an archeology of spirit. That empty hole in the sky is target we aim our metaphor toward.