There was a homeless man sitting at the bus stop,
laughing at the passing BMW’s and Saturns,
telling jokes that only he could hear and only he could laugh at.

Rebuke of bourgeois absurdity? Perhaps,
but there was no malice in it. Still, pedestrians
shrunk back all the same, trying to bracket the madness.

Why should it be so difficult to tell some passing stranger
that you aren’t angry anymore?
That one may fall into forgiveness as if it were sleep?

That, be it a whisper or a blow, the stone yields water.

From this place, one can scarcely find the words
to transmit what the spirit knows, to tell anyone,
let alone a stranger, that you are whole now.

Could I kiss your hands and rub them on my face?
Could I show you my arms, laced with scars,
and ask baffle-tongued, Do you see? Do you see?

Because once you’ve stripped away the words,
what else is a sermon
but laughter?