Not the one who takes up his bed and walks
But the ones who have known him all along
And carry him in
-- Seamus Heaney, ‘Miracle’
Not the one whose bed daily bears his iniquities
Because it was made by a fine village craftsman
Not a corporation.
Not the one who nails a hand to each stretcher
Handle mentally, so that if his friends try to tip
Him off, it is harder.
Not the friends who, in the beginning, were sold
On his humour, bought by his struggles, levelled
His militant-victim scales.
But the one who, if he can bank on a story about
A blind man, comes unlearned in silver-glossolalia
And offers a clean hand.