In the diptych, I see two Messiahs:

one just prior to his closing breath

and another exactly one moment after.

I do not see the breath itself (it being breath).

Nevertheless, as my eyes stray from one

to the other then back to the first, the result

is that of a comical videotape of gridiron miscues,

where they forward-reverse-forward-reverse

the tumbling receiver for hilarious effect.

My mood, however, is less jolly as my eyes

reload-unload-reload-unload life into Christ.

Then suddenly all dyings and undyings assume

an editing room incredulity: Jairus' daughter

pops-up-slumps-down-pops-up-slumps-down

on her bed and Lazarus keeps kicking through

and disappearing behind his cave door

like some cop on a Stephen J. Cannell crime

drama in worldwide syndication.

Neither, Grandpa, at your wake in Wheaton

nor during your lonely flight as baggage to Boston

did you ever display such cinematic hilarity.

There is, however, still time.