On Deadwood and Seeing Enemies Where There Are None

Ye of faith, seeing and not. Clutching your Bible, clutching
the post that helps keep structures erect. You speak of seeing
foes where allies stand, waiting to help you home.
The hand on the upper arm, guiding you through the muck
and mud of what are not yet streets. This is of comprehension,
and, too, a tangible sense, like that of the rotting flesh you smell,
thinking it is you, thinking it is your soul–that feathery thing
so many others disbelieve or have put aside for other tasks
or pleasures, like that of the piano’s tune and the cavorting whore.
You speak of fear and of devils and of kindness, that
that would be the shape you would take: upright and good.
And what, then, are we to do–when we trust nothing and no
one, not even ourselves? The ailing and sick, the mad reverend
with limp, questioning: that human condition.