115. The Lamb of Sod

 

lamb but for | its balm 

disruption | of a life 

to allow the continuation 

thereof | the tiny 

significances | of the day 

or not | instead the  

significations | the meanings 

spread over | the hours 

we cannot know | the meaning 

of our lives | or know 

if any | accrues | or if 

it adheres | to the memory 

of another | how easily we 

are forgotten | add a few 

generations | after us and 

we disappear | except 

through blood | the pulse 

we leave | even then | with 

enough time | we dissolve 

from the bloodstream too 

the body | the case 

for the mind | it holds us 

within ourself | our body 

burrows | through 

every accounting | of 

our life | and holds us 

in place | a carapace 

not hard enough 

to protect | our 

hands to | make things 

feet to | move us 

but we are not these 

bodies | so much as 

we are the | thoughts 

inhabiting them | we 

are the essential thing 

more fragile than body 

which persists | insists 

our essential selves 

evaporate at last breath 

we come | to make and 

mean | to create the 

meaning | that makes us 

whatever we are | not 

ever all good | we hope 

to give enough | to 

allow some memory of 

our selves | to persist 

within others | not to 

give us the gift | of 

rememberedness | but 

to show we left some grace 

behind | we added to 

more than subtracted 

all of which | I say to 

thank you for the lamb 

given by Eden | from 

somewhere in Kentucky 

not Gethsemane | but 

a place of abundances