the fog

“And the bow shall be in the cloud; 
and I will look upon it, that I may remember . . .” 

but then when I was crazy 
broken             exiled to the downtown dark 
hidden in a red brick fist of space 
between the sanctuary of First Presbyterian 
and the seedy entryway to Chez Pierre 
the soggy air was not a token or a sign 
the divine made tangible 
not an anointing kiss 
on my lids and lashes 
not water in its spirit form 
immersing me 
it was just a sodden fallen 
God-forsaken cloud 
a smudged stupor of despair 
that veiled the moon 
and my pale prayers 
that thickened every thread that I had on 
with wet 
breached every cell with frost 
and made me forget 
the possibility of warmth 
the hope of warmth 
or deliverance
that third night of five 
spent speechless          faithless          barely alive 
only feeling real 
with the slats of bench to underline my length 
I didn’t know yet 
that as bad as it got (and would get) 
it could have been much worse 
I didn’t know yet that I’d been heard 
and given strength to make it through 
to dawn 
that the silence was response              repose 
a chance to know the grace of extremity 
the bench that I was on           a pew 
in the sanctum of the elements 
and I an answered supplicant 
wrapped and protected 
in the sacrament 
of the airborne dew