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.