And you as well have had your secret hour
out of the trivial ticking of the years
after you found there wasn’t any power
in open smiles or covert sighs or tears
and cut your heart down to its proper quiet,
pretending worship had erased desire.
Oh no, I wasn’t fooled a minute by it,
for you were never candlelight, but fire.
 
What was the day you found your promised peace:
some stolen unrecorded day so sweet
that thorns dropped figs and olive branches curled,
or did your empty hands find scant release
the day you took your hair and washed his feet
who wanted nothing but to save the world?