Bob HaynesSight may first stir the itch
of possibility to include a torso
in which the blur on the screen is
drawn by pixels and stretched
tight as slats in venetian blinds.
A thought awakens eyelashes
to slim verticals of light, to the infected
mattress in the alleyway.
The blur might be wings lifting
a baby's head, or it could be an angel,
or mother of an angel.
Nonetheless, another likelihood awaits
that tells you time and again
that someone else’s God
by his own choosing loves you—
or not—as the case may be. Read more »