The Holy Hunt

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THE HOLY HUNT


I’ve done my diligence about the place.

             I've snuffled like a blue-tick to find a trace

of something tangible—a print perhaps?—

             as confirmation that I haven’t lost the track. 

A hunter knows, I’ve heard, the presence of 

             his quarry, obtains a transitory tingling of

the fingertips (or is it heart) that some-

             thing’s surely close. Don’t get me wrong, 


I wouldn’t deign to call myself a 'hunter' in 

             the denotative sense, but if the sole criterion 

for such a designation is the latent presence 

             of a smoldering below the heart, perhaps I am. 

I’m close, I sense, or maybe He is close to me—

             Ah, we must consider that the prey would feel

a similar enlightening, a ripple at the bottom of 

             the well. These hounds of heaven run like hell.

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