For Entae and the other strays,
who lay below our golden suns—
under a glass umbrella in the shade—
unaware of other ones,
who in time’s endless water wade.
For Galilee,
Miss Make Believe,
where Jesus walks, and ocean’s wave.
Where seagulls squawk,
nobody’s talk,
in a magical malaise.
For Galilee,
our make believe,
ballroom in the sand;
for you and me,
our memories,
and what we don’t understand.
