[For Kristen]
I am fit for Christianity,
because I have gone beyond it.
I have to embody it, inhabit it, consume it, make it my whole,
in order to understand what comes natural and habitual to you.
I must become a saint, to be what is personal to you.
The rest distracts me, but it suffices you.
From it, you weave inpenetrables.
I get entangled by what is not it, by what seems estranged.
But you draw essentials from what dissuades me.
You grasp in an instant what I must fashion into a lifestyle.
Your romanticism is central, what is expected.
Mine is practiced, what is sought for,
with all accoutrements;
what comes natural to you.
How do you understand what I must build a fortress to conceive?
All my life is spent in accumulating that treasure
which you take for granted, as basic sustenance.
I have nothing to say, but what you tell me;
to fashion it into something that sounds better,
but is a mere echo of that explosion.
Unsophisticated, your terse wisdom,
confounds my intellectual outpourings.
You say in a few words,
what you don't realize I say in so many.
And maybe I seem brilliant,
but your modest explosions silence my discourse.
I think it is wise to articulate,
and extrapolate,
what to you goes without saying.
You are a marvel, and I am your herald.
Your surface is my daydream;
I lean back to touch what you brush away,
and bless as you squander.