As in a soup, spoon-hot,
I float with noodles –
the yellow tubes hold me up
and I defy gravity,
my organs mystified at the lack of pressure
from above or below
All is calm: I drift,
waiting for God to speak
Like Julian, I look for showings
of what is real – the deal
that defies description
I feel love push me
in different directions, and
my firm convictions sink:
they are too heavy
All right, I am clinging on,
but the bright white flowers
and the sun behind
make me forget all that
Grace is pouring in and out:
its currents propel me gently
from side to side
Sometimes I kick,
but I do not escape
For a while, this
is proof of heaven:
paper bark falls from birch trees
and lies on the grass, unread