that OCD guy

afire with compulsive prayer

hand brushes hair

every minute or so

an outward expression

of an inward obsession

a man twice-odd

fanatic for God

and the part I forgot

I'm sorry a lot

your song

your song cannot be silenced

it breathes, swimming in its own light

swirls, self-propelled, in a bubble of energy

a power that cannot diminish

born of its own accord

cannot have done otherwise

no song can be silenced

it IS because it must be

it is that it is

outlandish

do dogs have feelings? 

can they understand what we say?

in ways we might not imagine

 

does the wind have words?

are we remiss in not comprehending?

 

even a mountain communicates

when we stand in awe

it has inserted its grandeur

into our thoughts

 

is God in our temples, our churches, our hearts?

is Buddha in photons, and black holes, and quarks?

some things are too outlandish to conceive

the more outlandish

the more I tend to believe

Marguerite

Marguerite wanders

by the isolation room door

a nurse tells her to get away

I don't mind her being here

don't mind the company

when she is back, she says to me

through the thick window

"Don't worry. God loves you."

maybe she knows

this is just what I need to hear

years later

during her group home intake

I will witness her 

setting her hair on fire

years after that

will see her dragging her belongings

across Public Square

I will not call to her

she has a rugged-looking guy

in tow, I feel she must at least

have some kind of protection

the nurse calls to her again

she turns and skitters off

down the dirt-tracked hallway