Dawn

If in the blue gloom of early morning,

the sky heavy with portents of snowfall,

the air crisp with the cold that will

gather about us for the long season ahead,

you see the slick blackness of my car

humming in the empty A lot; and if you

see the light of the dash against

my face, and notice my mouth moving 

like a sputtering madman’s might,

and if you see me wave a hand

toward my head and pull away

the knit tam I wear close to the skull,

and if you see me rocking, eyes

closed—then do not second guess

yourself—it is true, I have been

transported into the net of naked

trees, above it all, and my soul

is crying out the deep confusion

of gospel—the wet swelling in my chest

is the longing in me, and these tears

are the language of the unspeakable,