The arrangement of thoughts in the head of the believer danced the woozy dance of trance hypnotized prayer makers partnering from time to time with disbelieve.
This is the day a saint sits drinking tea in the vestibule of a church wondering if doubt can bring him any closer to understanding the mystery of Fatima.
Water of mother wash me, milk of mother quench me, tear of mother save me, I am the son of a woman – a mother whose love almost blinded me.
This is the day a hungry man kisses a soft woman on the breast of her faithfulness and sleeps to the sound of her singing, finally dreaming we are a family.
Paint me mother; draw me loving others; of me speaking the most profound thoughts in universities of inquiry, within crowds of beautiful people who are laughing.
This is the day reason falls apart, the day races are won by long shots, the day a small boy emerges from a cave speaking a wonderful arcane language.
Feel me mother, touch my forehead – notice my lips of trembling terror, and sooth your troubled child, kneeling in your bedroom praying to the god of eventual deception.
This is the day a dove leaves the pool of Fatima healed. This is the day a firecracker announces a new year; the day judges adjourn from criticizing pleasure.
This is the day…