at the edge of the edge of the silver dance
the stuff of space becomes so attenuated that
a single floating atom
cannot see the ghost mama
(because there is, by definition, nothing there)
Yet she is.
Curled around her lone, fetal darling
So much smaller than a human
blastocyst
Just a nucleus, protons, the usual electrons
Would be panicky lonely
Except for the unseen but still
so present
Modern ghost.
having lost the ancient word for fire, underestimate it into neat concentric squares folded, shelved and forgotten next to ugly Christmas sweaters, baby pictures, and odd clay art projects of now-adult progeny
Neglect means nothing to it, coiled, implacable, unfazed by short and mortal attention spans
Let the last leaf fall but…
Do not neglect the sun
Content for now to burn
At a safe distance
Until the day it will unhinge from invisible moorings and float
Balloon-like Beauty towards us
Suddenly, immaculately attentive
To this nakedness before impending fire.
Crowded city, lonely manger
Tired little mama so close
to the house of bread
You tell me the story of
tokens we substitute for transubstantiation
Exchanging trinkets for the
Stuff of life (everlasting)
or looking for the little clues-
“The ones who still hold on”
So very far from home
He knows you
try to pull a fast one
Child with the big words
In his eyes
Calls your bluff
I know you love Christmas!
Light is no ordinary word when spoken
In the dark
Commanding songs of rescue from the sleep-deprived
Who ponder why
Gold…frankincense…myrrh
gifts for the
Master-builder
Who makes a transom from a cross.
I squint to the horizon of “us”
To see you
gazing each day at
The thumbprints of eternity
Finding only
autonomic dopplering
Morse code for G-O-D
While I, all dervish need
Lean my head against
His broken chest
Hear the beating heart of God
Shout so loud
A pitchy song of adoration
At the center of this
Expanding infinite:
Skies, scars, planets, constellations,
Pulsars, telemetry, metonymy
All portmanteaus for
Leaves in early winter shook loose from the hair of the mother tree
lighthouses fixed to a rocky shore
Amidst inkwell seas
We bob in the dark
Fixed points of light
think of the worst book
Each page, each word, each sentence
Awful for a long time until
They are re-written
With the simple line drawings of a child
Obscuring words and pictures of
darkness, evil, or moldy and stained
garden-varietal venality
With the loveliest trees
Birds in flight /charcoaled nimbi
Outlined halos
Their feathery heads tilted
Ever-so-slightly-quizzical
Asking why are you sad?
Each page of darkness
Transformed by this
Ferociously tender
Child-
Light, where there used to be all those
Terrible monsters
Crayoned over/ into heaven
By this poet-redeemer
word spoke to life.
I looked it up,
The thing about rainbows…when none are in sight
What do you do with a fallen, broken
Rain-drenched world?
Ignore the indirect saturation of light (filtered through heavy
Clouds)
Put ineluctable
Signs in the sky
Sometimes vivid, others spiraling, concentric
Insinuated into ordinary
Sunsets
Sure, I got it–rainbows
The unfortunate companions of unicorns
Neither make the boat…
Or as I prefer to think–both
The misunderstood rhino
The glinting prismatic light
Or more importantly–James Baldwin, evoking
Saint Peter…
Fire the next time
His anger, his dungeon, his elegant use of fire
As both a noun and a verb
I can barely look straight at
That kind of righteous rage
Much less the real
God
Who raises a Son
To rudder, anchor, mast, and sail
The one and only vessel
Which could
Will
Has
Sailed the sea of fire…
the next time.
middle page of something
My words to you
unnailed, unpierced, still love
Disconnect. Disconnect
these broken
Bones, sinews, ligaments
Teeth and bones become
Rebellious things in the house
Unknit, unswept, unmade
Until…
what is left?
When I cannot walk to you, run to you
Reach the limit of the horizon
Lie awake old
Teeth, old bones
Grind out hours in the dark
wondering where was
Ezekiel’s army beneath
integumentary sand
Old bones
No longer insanguinate
They lie down, sleep children cuddled beneath
The coverlet of
God singing His
Bruising love song
Lullaby in the place of the skull
Has, is, will
Sing to the dead
Broke-bone army
Spoke to life
Grip the blade,
Fit to fight
I have thought of this, my little love
Rifled through the pockets of my diminished
Powers of speech and human governance,
To find you all good things:
Enhanced night vision
Kick-ass ninja skills
The irrefutable assurance of your loveliness
Not enough.
So let us add:
Dragons rise to your command
Eagles lift you to the place where air grows thin
and may you
always see
The clear road home.
Too much, you protest
So down to this,
voice of love
what if it was perfume
or acorns stashed in my pockets?
Bits of things remind me
of you
Lost to me for now
I trace all the
Alternate
timelines of our
Would-be existence together
How did you
sprint past me, Dear?
Leaving perfume, acorns
emptied from the inside out
This pocketful of
Birnam Wood in my hands,
in my hands, this forest floor
Dirt, mulch, fallen leaves, roots, baby trees…
Saplings, timbers, interlacing
Limbs outstretched toward the warm
Light of God who takes away the sins of the world
…the story we will be.
Close to
La noche de Los muertos
I open the
Faraday box
Keep one leg out, door ajar,
Bit of light
Lent by a friend
You inhabited when
The world was still
An old wine skin
Blood and Spirit
I tell myself this
New litany of
Places for the dead
Who will all
rise
Because of you
They kept it
sealed for centuries
Told ourselves we could
be tourists there
Run our mortals’ hands along the stone
Ledge, trace rock, and DNA
Rise
Rise
Unshrouded Light
Carrying Light 