THE FEAST OF ST. JOHN
. . . which I will not keep
for the evangelist.
Not for the eagle looking
down on the world
his Jesus saves with secrets.
My Jesus looks me in the eye.
He doesn’t tell me who he is,
over and over again.
He tells me who I am,
as he told, I like to think,
that sweet boy—
that fisherman who couldn’t
write in Greek—
who left his father’s boat
and followed him.
GladErrand 