Faith is the Wing-Covered Face

and feet—a stepping
into darkness to meet the fate
set before you
from a high throne

or less, you can’t know
so on you go
as slow as you like,
glacial even,

for the message you seek
is beyond a vision—
it’s the red-hot-coal-pressed-lip
you dive from

into an abyss,
and lest you doubt it,
try this: close your eyes,
sit motionless, look

back on your first kiss—
the I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing
mess of it, lean in again
into the crackling

electricity of then
a present lightning
or lightening depending
on how you see it

or don’t; it’s a feeling
for the pinioned chin,
that tufted tongue you blindly
follow.