Black Ice

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How can you believe what you can’t see? Jesus said believe in me to Peter, and to others, and they didn’t blink, they gulped and swallowed maybe, but no doubt what was belief then, the way a nausea drools, then convulses you.

In Baltimore it spread because a host of weathers comes together and the days are black in their mood, hurt’s just waiting, you are not anyone special, not chosen, but you believe in yourself, not words you hear rasped as you pass

an alley, maybe late for lunch, or leaving church, or like me, opening the mailbox, just a little step, no trouble expected, and the whole of you’s flying, a failed physics assumption. Only even that doesn’t last, there’s a superior premise

under the invisible, and it’s harder. I got dumped like a horse I saw a girl strike with a two-by-four. Half under my car, freezing, I started to pray. Let me get up, please. I sounded like a boy years ago in the dark practicing for Jesus, or

at least hoping I would sound real to the faces when I professed my faith. After a while I crawled to a bench, a perfect afternoon empty as my heart, no cars, no walkers, how could I not see how slippery the world was, and wait?