Whoever it is (After Bonhoeffer)

Who am I?


These

negatives of my selves,

not shifting in the sands

of digits but processed

in gasoline, slowly, in

quiet red rooms where

shadows gave birth to

hues of scarlet. 


Who am I?



I see clearly that the roll of film

spends itself quickly--

fast to burn,  to fall in 

slick negatives,  like

Berryman from his bridge,

Crane from his boat,

and Artaud from his mind;

and, come to think of

these men,
 
I sympathize

with Pilate's question:

"What is truth?" 

There is no trustworthy mood,

no plateau of consciousness

that I deem unsung

and none really unexplored.


Who am I?


I hear the cries of broken men, 

a black man with a

limp and dusty

hand,  fungus like from

Medicaid's polite

declinement

of their services.  
 
There is no saving

for all, I know that,

and I assume You

do as well.


Who am I?


Whoever I am,  dear God, I shall always belong to You.