Your name, Jesus, is childhood in the body, at times
a single malt upon the tongue, Vivaldi to the ears;

your name, Christ, forgiveness to the heart, acceptance
to the flesh, a troubled joy across the soul;

at ever my very best I will plead to you, closest to me,
for kindness. Perhaps the silence I take for God’s

non-presence is the noise in which I have immersed
my life; nor have I framed a quiet to correspond

to his, where I might find my every call
answered. I seek kind. You are the reality I cling to,

the flesh, the history, the spurting out of blood. I believe
the non-attendance of my God lies in my absence from him

and he is present, like the embrace of air
or the inward forces of the seasons. Your name, Jesus,

is the river on which I float, your name, Christ, the ocean
where everything is in place, is shivering, beautiful, and apart.

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