A catheter, or the holy spirit—both
cannulas (whether fixed in body or soul)
a little reed, the syrinx that channels
something sacred: signs of our wet life,
breath of our unseen transformations.
We turn wine into water, play it out
through that pipe the same way spirit
turns our water to higher proof, distills us:
indwelling, a reverse osmosis of the soul.
It's been a busy and crud-filled week. A lousy nasty cold brought me down while I was enmeshed in Giovanni di Paolo's paintings of St. Catherine. (That probably explains the poem.)
Have a good week, all y'all.
I will, once I quit coughing.