A Dream

“Not my will but thine,” I hear in an echo

of a dream where a woman is brushing 

sand off my back, her nipples pressed

against it, saying, “There,” and I think

of the prayer which pretends an immediacy

the divine rarely participates in.  Waking,

I realize, to Sunday morning.  And the laughter 

and the sighs and the body heat are sacrifices

to angels standing by unable to be anything

but messengers and not the thing itself like

me feeling flesh against flesh, heart calling

to heart in the love language of the world,

which was the language before words 

took hold and defined what is and what isn’t

wrongly.  The attempt to find the old language

our salvation, redemption in the only word

that matters, that ecstatic “Yes” before 

the words, “In the beginning” were said 

to be said.  I smile at the day, this Sunday

morning, feel the kiss upon my lips.  

Hear the angels sigh their longing to be human.

Know the truth of the lie – “A little lower than the angels.”

-Byron Hoot

Hootism:  there are metaphors everywhere.