Psalm 4 Shekhinah

Shekhinah is the girl in David's bed. He was cold at the end, no longer dreamed of what he lived. Not full of himself, the  athlete supple beyond bend, who led a troop fifteen fugitive years, slept on the ground, fasted days. He could not get warm, shivered in the kingdom of his memories and when he opened his eyes was not yet home. He is in a tent with a flag on top like a Bedouin, surrounded by sweets he could'nt eat, courtiers he couldn't stand. They bring a girl to warm him.

She lays beside the memories of Absalom and Gath, Saul at night,  air and men, intrigues and women. He is freezing. She feels the bone.  Compassion flows around them. She feels the wasted muscle of the sinew arms. Compassion flows around feet and hands. She loves the  man, else how stand? Now he sleeps. She has fulfilled rest to the king. But he stirs. His dreams are light. He thinks of Absalom. She is a blanket, a pillow. The lights are out. A guard stands. What kind of love has the girl in his bed? For a friend, to sing and hold when they go where none has gone. Don't go alone is the wisdom of the home. The everlasting in the bed, his fingers ache, digestion unsettles, gaps in his teeth, eyes dry on good days. No cough, dementia or out of breath moaning. Her comfort does not prolong.

He sees beyond the bone the miracle of the words so great- he has set apart the godly for himself. You have filled my heart with greater joy. I will lie down and sleep in peace. These are good. Four sons lost! How do we know he lives a life of faith? Hang around all night. He says with amazement what spring and winter behold  in each other in the sea they can't cross. She holds tight in these fits. Heart reaches. Wishes herself two. A king and bone shop. Think, having done, of ancestral memory, as there is of birth and life, that folk wisdom of death initiates itself. Old ladies in the home, all men having gone, whisper to one another that they know. They boast. We never quite find out, till flesh melts. She doesn't leave. She remains thousands of years.

What nurse gets in bed with a patient? One could embrace the heart being of a soul? Necronauts boast they  ride in Charon's boat, cross and recross.  What are they 40, 50, 60, in full flesh after meal that wine and love made possible and satiated with long sleep and talk of Beckett dying? David has this boatman, this flower.  How his hair is growing thin. Cheeks hang. You think the mind diminished but he sees what frightens all, his life and work are not enough. He sees the cold, no alibi. Everybody knows. Faulkner frowns. None good.  Gone down in ships. Vanity, said the man's son.