'in memoriam: Willard J. Ingram'

He disappeared one typical morning,
complete as a scar, a mere man,
absurd as the rest of us, his life
a curious riddle.

His life, too, was the life and death
of God, his deeds as unexpected
as his love; a mere man equal
to the sum of the insoluble.

A man dies anonymous as a breeze
after a twelve hour battle for breath
in which, in the end, his lungs
turn to liquid and pour out his
gaping mouth an untranslatable scripture.

His eyes did not see anything worth
seeing; sight was no longer an ally,
if ever it was, his heart clearly alone
in spite of protestations to the contrary.

God was taking him now,
in spite of the tears, in spite
of all the work left pending,
in His own way.

The little man, reduced to hollow-eyed
frailty, had just honored the moment
for which he had been born,

the Self wishing to be itself again,
one life, returned from desperate
multiplicity.