There are those who believe the air
passing into and out of the mind–
air that’s been everywhere–
can happen to heal.
Some say this air is God.

Others believe in water
or fire, or earth.  Still others
in powders or oils from plants,
in electronic tides, or laboratory
numbers floating in the blood.

Listening to late-night radio
I hear a healer from China
tell his invisible audience how
to speak to what ails:  tell it
you love it, he said.

“I love you,” I told
my leg in the dark,
“I love you, I love you,”
rubbing the eversore muscles,
the knee that unceasingly aches.

Not being Chinese, perhaps I
should have stuck with “Go
and sin no more.”  Maybe
pain has made me insincere,
a non-believer in the goodness

of the universe.  My leg
did not believe me.  Still doesn’t.
Says salvation for a person of
my ways may be to have to limp
unto the last footstep of my days.

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