THE ACOLYTE IS
ON THE OUTS
I always thought it should be. One instead.
The acolyte is on the right. How trivial such
pursuit becomes when the mad-dashing cam
is catching knights in armor on the run.
I fear for nothing, and all things together.
I fear for death, and for meeting my family.
I fear for the moment, most of all, of recognition:
the cold stone factor of Being; the rambling
jaunt of how it goes. Blind children holding
coloring books and yet safe from the dissension
they sometimes bring. You say yellow. I say sing.
I fear for closing the book that final last time,
for removing the dog's collar that very last night,
for eating my last cold, hard-boiled egg alright.
For waving good-bye, and really meaning it.
The last time ever to turn out the light.