Violet, whispered Eve, because
saying the names aloud
made the act too real. Pansy
and woodruff, the flowers so small
Who am I to cast light upon the human soul?
Sitting down to write peace-verses for mercenary gain,
Hunting for poems and hoping against hope that I need not
Imperfection is the place where the spirit enters,
the small hole in your shirt, the loosening threads
of carpet, the ache in your soul for forgiveness.
She consoles me as I meditate
before Mass—Julian of Norwich,
that is, who says, “We are clothed,
wrapped in the goodness of God.”
Praise God for all things green
Lime jello, blades of grass, emeralds
Chameleons, the neon river frog
Heavy papayas begging to be picked
I expect the whitest dove,
purity as the Spirit breaks apart
firm blue of our ceilinged sky,
a tapered shape, an elegance.
But Picasso was right.
She spoke softly, calmly recounting
her pain through a furnace of litanies
that helped her hold on to the unbelief
I cannot tell you why
I taste death;
the windows clean as rain.
The eightieth soldier was blown up in Salahuddin Province.
From far-out depths they come,
swell swelling swell,
'til cresting they salute the sky
and tumble towards sand that waits immemorially
to receive them.
The narcotraficante commanded me
in gestures, take off your blouse.
Then he jerked it, scattering buttons—
smooth and pink—along the ground.
"The wind blows wherever it pleases." Word?
The scene is played out. We need some Eden!
Were Abba the DJ, He'd spin hymns
It's comical, sir