Hemingway Sights the Incarnation
When I saw Christ seated at the right hand
of his father, he was buckled. He flew
down a fresh-paved interstate. The Ghost read
from the backseat. They came to my tent. They
knew me. Would they eat a piece of game? We ate.
They said a son was due. That if my books
had women, one might laugh. They left, of course.
I shot. They spun, crashed. Not quite procession,
union. Three for one. Was that it? So long
a life that we owe God a death. I flushed
at flesh pinned under form, but they had gone --
leaving books and words behind, only signs.
