by Gary Hardaway

                         Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

   T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages

To know, not in the skeptic mind,
but in the unassuming heart,
that there's a mindful God would be
a comfort deeper than our certain

death. Such hope must open love
beyond the tensioned force of jawed doubt
that feeds on common disappointment.
To envy faith, to envy love --

is there a fate more hateful? Choices
scatter like stars. Too many.
Should one choose the brightest? One
so dim it might be the afterimage

of a light too bright to face?  
The worlds revolve, unseen. They stream out,
numberless, and wait for us,
veiled by so much space and time.