So I’m waiting

for the un-nameable certainty,

Trusting in all the stuff

I can touch

I can control…

So much stuff.

Even a thread of decision comes

as whole cloth to wrap my body in.

I want, rather to touch the things he does in my life:

Here

and here…

But every time I get there they have gone cold.

Is the Lord the only one for whom I’ll shake off the dust and move on?

How backwardly I must have been created!

My waiting is heavy

and muddled — inertia, really, a graceless wait–

So un-Mary,

whose faith took body by waiting upon him;

I seem literally to have smothered in my inertia

All he is calling me to be.