Psalm

So where is the past? Is it the terrain
in periphery, never the destination

but whose contours shape the weather?
Is it the icy light the moon reflects

on the tracks of things before me?
Wonderful deeds have we done, and

fearful things. They lay across the path
of parting like roots or over-hang

my steps with shade and snakes.
I do not wish to look

back. I only need to know
from which direction will come

the monster-god it has nurtured
to replace me so that I may stand

before him in the breach to turn away
his wrath, convince this pale reflection

that it could be a kinder god