And it turned out that they had gone over the million / Prayer mark for our son
I consider the moonflower: / how the big spent blooms look like / three linen tea towels rinsed and wrung out
Through the slippery spirit's incomprehensible means / A perfect surrender.
So that for a short moment there is no death.
There are tour guides who speak / all the human tongues, and we are trampled / for being famous blades / but then are resurrected.
Sometimes even we— / pierced with arrow-words, with brassy / cacophonies of slurs—stand in calm.
If my belief were a hickory nut / I'd keep it safe in my pocket
The voices are singing, “All will be well, All will be well.”
If Advent is a time / of waiting, of joyful anticipation, why are we / so often troubled?
Be the pulse driven from a broken shell.