Like any other, I crave the pastor’s Sunday afternoon nap. Instead, I find myself out on my bike, winding out the day and running out whatever needs to be let go so that I can sleep at night. On a feast day for St Michael and All Angels (of whom I am quite fond; we were married in their church), this is what results:
Drawing circles with my cycle
in the air and on the Tarmac,
the eternal arc.
Nothing to hear but the wind in my ears;
John Donne, randy poet priest
considered angels to be
disturbances in the air.
The rush of a passing semi truck-
those that don’t kill you make you strong-
the rest is stillness, silence, except for
the demons urging you on.