Poetry

Poetry

Night sounds

          For Jay

At night your children ask
in cries for you to come to them

In the space between sleep and light
you pull on a baby sling, tuck in small fingers
soothing who you can. Not at all times mindful
what treasure you hold.

In the morning things align themselves
like dishes in a row
work to do, and people
who have need of you, always

The space will not always be there,
the night
      you meet your children in.
Someday not so long from now, no one
will wake you from your sleep and dreams.

Pictures will move behind your eyes
again, noise given only to floor boards,
traffic, a rotating fan.

But what is more grounded
than the pavement you tread at 3 a.m.?
weighty jewel against your chest.











Search engines

We’re here to gather evidence, to find
The DNA—or at least to lift the finger-
prints of Deity. A treasure hunt
With clues craftily concealed, but there
Nevertheless. If clouds drifting dreamily
Across the moon’s congested face won’t do,
Or waves that threaten passion in the
Higher sense, beyond a Category
Five, make you shrug, consider numbers,
Counting to infinity. Boot up
Your Apple, and see how many zeroes it
Can prophesy. Click a remote: note
How mice, unwired, can still point
To sites unmentioned in the manual.
Divide three into ten, and claim eternity.

Object lessons: Glue

“It did what I wanted it to do,”
said my sister of the carefully composed
little book of old family photographs
she’d arranged with sheer vellum slips
between the pages,
“so they could see through to the old
faces, maybe circle them, write things,
mostly gather round close and remember
because the book is small.”
Their knees would almost
have to touch.

The agonie

Philosophers have measur’d mountains,
Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings,
Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains:
But there are two vast, spacious things,
The which to measure it doth more behove:
Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love.

Who would know Sinne, let him repair
Unto Mount Olivet; there shall he see
A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,
His skinne, his garments bloudie be.
Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain
To hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein.

Who knows not Love, let him assay
And taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike
Did set again abroach; then let him say
If ever he did taste the like.
Love in that liquour sweet and most divine,
Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.