The Word

There was this foreign feeling
Encountered this cool morning;
I caught myself soaking
The marrow out of the Word

Something I thought myself
Incapable of comprehending
For the many years of my youth
Which I have somehow scored

Differently than my peers,
Marking yesterday more than tomorrow.
I sit waiting, staring at a his life-sized
Statue or more precisely, toward,

And accuracy is important
Since in this pale light
With goose pimples on my arms,
From acclimation to long summers,

I see in his shadow more
Clearly than light,
More in his dying for
Than in his life.