Running on the Beach With Rebecca

Bike tire treads, tributaries on sand
Stamped with footprints, paw pads, the soles of shoes,
Stream before us like kite strings with ribbons.
Could we run these lines to their end, and were
Those ends set upward where clouds fellowship
Would we feed our bellies on firmament,
Our beings dissolving from our bodies
Into perpetual void without form?
Or would we as Wise Men study in faith
Heaven, which answers the heart’s appetite
Ancient and eternal, with The One Cloud
That moved upon the face of void and deep
And scribed savor enough on all that we
Should see Holy through superficial things?

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