the closest path to ground—
want is static, charged and always searching
a stepped ladder from heaven
a neuropathway, angel-white and pulsing
a conduction like a father’s call descending over Jacob’s head
while he rests on a rock.
He dreams of the bride at the well
the release, the way they will ease together
(kissing her, he weeps).
An upended lake of sky, never stilled—
think of the water in a cloud
meeting in the moment of freeze, the updraft
and down, the melt, particles halved and flung like wings—
think of the marriage bed
so close to ground.
He wakes, but the dream
holds him open—the stone never rolled
from the mouth
so he can ever bend to drink.
He rises on his way—a stream’s reach.
A channel made of wandering water
a thirsting flock.