Reasons

Reasons are fine things:
comfortable on flat surfaces.

They do not take to them
the same space
as beer bottle shards
washed, tumbled
among the waves and rocks
of Lake Winnipeg,

polished to impossible shine:
improbable, inarticulate
jewels
refracting aurora.

Life kneels,
supplants,
and makes a way
for reasons.

But not the
high tides
in the Bay of Fundy,
or
event horizons
that stack and coil
on the shores
of singularities.

I have been
dragged, legs kicking,
to every single Easter dawn
all my sorry days.

Oh!

The way my life has contended
with the gulf
between the wild, the certain;
with that which will not
rest on shelves,
or lean against clean edges;

the incongruity
of turned ankles gathered too far from home.
Feet lost to
expected rungs on the grabiron.
Small-caliber muzzles,
and the hand of God
wedged firm between the hammer and the shell.

Sweet grace.

My mind's oldest, grandest adversary.