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Robert Murray Davis reads
Good Friday, 1992, Riding Nowhere
in RealAudio format.
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This day, I do not disbelieve, you died.
All Lent and more, tied
to machines that labored to amend
defects of cartilage, I ached to bend
this knee to grace
lost in the falls that led me to this place:
under a barren fig my lover tends.
It flourishes. What life sends
we take. This bike,
point it which way I like,
sits still at fifteen miles an hour.
Hooked up to nothing, all that power
chained to an endless round.
Once I found
my way by number, up and down
the church aisle, flanking priests to trace
the way you took, face
down in garden to tomb's belly up.
You did not throw the sponge.
I'll face another sun.
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