'Salt for the flavor, light to guide the way.'
Christ said it all, but I am sick of Him,
tied of my riffs off His melodies.
I don't dispute His authenticity,
His presence here this morning as I write
but I have to find my own light and salt.
They stare out from Rembrandt's 'Last Self-Portrait.'
His children, wife, both mistresses, have died
by the moment these eyes fix on our own.
And that light will not go away, will it?
I close the book, I turn my head. Light's here.
Could this be Christ? Maybe. Maybe not.
Still, this is the way the dead enter us—
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem