Rerouting

The road is a slip of slate,  

its edges patterned with ash-gray  

licks of rubber, the curses of  

tires spun out in the rain.  

What we name "joy" becomes  

a soft-speed hum in wind, a  

license plate stamped with  

permission, our own sealed yes.  

To live holiness is to turn  

into the unpaved silence, where  

rocks jut up like affronts  

to ease, scratching ego clean.  

Temptation flags us down—  

a sleek tollbooth offering flash  

and noise, but the map  

folds firm against any detour.  

God's roads are not always  

straight, a poet’s hand bending  

lines that break you open,  

that steer the falsehood out.