This time they are the ones cauth, though they try to close their eyes.
My husband, he die
without water in desert.
Walking Saudi Arabia --
no jobs in Yemen
My strokes are halting, not like the imagined fluidity
of the monastic scribes, hunched, by candlelight,
over some ancient text, perhaps the Our Father,
Bach wrote his solo cello suites as études, not for performance./ Imagine, the arpeggios of the first prelude, forever private, /
His friend Martha's making soup, because you still / have to eat. Meanwhile, back in the Garden /
she says, that is not God’s, and we approach
a crow ripping the entrails
of a truck-crushed fox, and the crow flees
The hospital chaplain who sits in the room of a sick child
in Chicago and brings the child to God—not with words
but by her quiet presence.
Over chatter of starlings and grackles,
you hear your father’s voice,
confident and constant as bee hum
in the backyard of your thoughts.
Somebody noticed this quaking purplish spray
hung incongruous on late-winter's bough,
and tied a festive bow of multicolored yarns
to cheer the anomalous blossoms,
The first thief and the second.
Alb: A white liturgical tunic worn as prayer for a heart protected from all stain and washed in the Blood of the Lamb.
Because I lay on my back as a boy in the grass of the small yard behind our house watching clouds move and become faces, mostly,
Of all the saints, my Anthony, I love you best. For you did what I long to do: you walked away from a life of comfort and ease,
This is the Month, and this the happy mornWherein the Son of Heav’ns eternal King,Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
The ram’s horn bellowed.
Fused with snapped spears and hatchet heads
nicked shields covered the field,
that light kept me a year in its grip first
my feet caught fire then my blood
we moved at the edge of endlessness
headless handless mouthless mind-
To you who are lost today
like a needle in a haystack, reading this poem alone.
Alone, brother island, sister moon. The ocean is big,
A grace of green, the underleaf
of olive, the birdsong’s
cradling. It’s as though
How the earth now struggles into spring.
How the cold hangs on, each morning cracking to begin.