An itch and a burn.
  Dream dying, and see god
feverish. He's after your eyes.
  Wake up, and see

Clouds over clouds.
  Like two travelers, shell-shocked
by one another, letting
  assumptions own the floor.

Were Jesus a man and not a carpenter,
  he would've forgotten the plank in his eye
and seen like the rest of us.
  And our visions reduce

like a burnt light,
  softly born
and crudely dying.