Created in the midst of a clock,
Ticking each second to the rhythm of a slowing
Heart. The dust that enfolds my bones,
will weary, will break, will overtake
this creation.

Father, do you believe in doubt?

A fleeting breath exhaled; inhaling
my own speculation. My life now resides
outside of two eyes in the moment
I shook hands with separation,
to dwell within Beauty.

Father, what use is doubt to me?

What use to Abraham, to Paul, to God?
Because when dust no longer creates me
I’ll dwell outside of corruptibility,
and when asked if I’ve tasted death I’ll say
No, but I shook his hand.