Today I encountered a young preacher
he carries no basket or envelope
Just a pocket Bible and an Invitation
He expounded the third chapter of John
like a man digging a Roman Gravemound
while others look away
and I pretend reading a book of poem.
The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it,
but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes…
I think we should thank preachers
who moves
from car to car
from train to train
more than poets
that just sit on pages.
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