Something called a GiveBox appeared / this fall on Falckensteinstrasse, and my first gift
You wait a long time for Christmas morning
drifting asleep even as the ebony slate of sky
shatters in clarion silence
and shepherds in the hills cast down their rods
look up at angels and find themselves
no longer huddled in darkness
but lucent between the stars.
You, no longer a child but still drifting,
enter the mystery that is darkness
willing to open the gift inside your own singing
recognizing the song of songs from the first Eve—
We all live for the Light
He uproots teeth primordial in nature and that eat his soul
with appetite the size of mercenary forces plundering a city
whose inhabitants do not fight back because most of them
are women, children, and animals that creep on all fours.
He knows of a city not spared and is without name, unlike Nineveh,
whose repentant king decreed:
Human beings and animals shall be covered with sackcloth,
and they shall cry mightily to God.
He thinks of what to do but knows that he is not the prophet
About love she was all wrong, / the old capitalist, patron saint / of the self-made rich. How well / she misunderstood the paradox deep / as mothers’ grief:
On Proverbs 8
"There is nothing casual / about casualties of war."
You can’t desire to catch the sacred fish / as much as he desires to be caught / & yet / he darts through the dim depths / with tail swerve & swish
"Denial / This has nothing to do with blackness. / This has everything to do with blackness."
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
We are the lay of the land— / pocked, hilled, knowing every ember / and seed imprinted on our bones.