Everything has come to this.
I simply write verses in my car.
I do a job which insults my intelligence.
I have come in a linear line
down through the ages,
although I have no gray hair to speak of.
It has its own words.
I won’t waste mine.
But it has come to this.
I have constructed
a strange cathedral inside myself.
It has porticos,
and windows,
and dark, stony corners,
all made of the invisible,
all made of atoms lighter than air.
Its works of art and devotion
are known only intuitively,
and they are in endless composition,
as long as I live and no longer.
So it has come to this.
A plain Ohio man,
who’s never been anywhere,
or done anything,
except he fell in love remarkably,
and had remarkable children,
and wondered how it all came about
as he painted his soul.
And composed his words,
and examined his nails,
and understood,
life is a miraculous God gift.
And it has come to this,
a place, a job,
an horizon that insults common sense,
but thanks the invisible cathedral,
the intangible presence.
It’s appreciated.