when the angel came
hovering over my bed, hanging in the sky
above me. hair all out, and there was
nothing but flesh under his robe
he told me, not in words but being
believe
he sang and spake in tongues and
every word
from his angelic mouth runs to the one
injunction which is believe
and belief is like a baby's tooth that
grows and grows
and then falls out
and belief is like a river bed
a wadi bed
a desert bed that dries and dries and turns to
dust till you have nothing
belief is like the three day rising,
the tower the desert flower
that resurrects again from nothing
or it
comes up from a little seed transported
in bird shit and blooms and blooms
but first it is a choice
it is better to love than not
it is better to believe and believe than not
the hovering angel sings: make that choice
then faith will follow
it is just so dull to not believe
and so the angel, glowing, his hair all
flowing, thrust out a hand to the holy hill
and commands every atom of your will:
believe