Stained Glass

When the Apostles come with holy spirit

They will not ask me if I wish it

What blind man, dying from lack of trade,

Would prefer you gentle, just and jade?

And when the scales fall from my eyes

A delicate shower of rosewater sighs

I’ll see you sallow in egress

I’ll see you off with no regrets

For then, I, too, will be one

of the Seeing, and the Seeing

Never think you might not wish to be healed