I ask the children who would win
In a foot race
Einstein or Newton?
S. says the wearing of wigs would matter
And I picture Newton trotting gamely behind
Losing precious seconds
As he tries to keep the wig on.
Gravity is something you might believe in
Or streams of consciousness
But not Jesus, my subjective friend
Whose fury you have misjudged
Like the smallest of figures in the distance
Moving inexorably toward you
Fire in his eyes