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Forty new O Antiphons

What would possess me to copy a chapter of the Bible by hand?

       (Quercus agrifolia)

Look at this trunk, burnt hollow,
         keyholed from side to side.
                  Yet, in spite of a few dead limbs,
                           a crown of leaves pushes against

What if kindness, honesty, and compassion were valued more than winning?

Last night we walked along the river path.
The full moon rose and shone its pale light
across the water. It did not feel like night
but, rather, evening or morning or something
in between, blue and smoky, like the last
set of a Jazz Man’s song. What could go wrong
on a night like that? The sick & suffering
lay a few hundred yards from where we walked,
the hospital windows just out of view.
For now the world was just me and you.
We strolled slowly, eyed the sky and talked
of stars, how far they were and how long

Dear Sir or Madame, begins my scribble,
“Too stiff,” says I, which ends that quibble.
New page—Old Friend! I start to scratch,
but soon cross out. What words can match
this Word I am replying to
sent by a Love that I once knew?
You may not hear from me that much,
but today I thought I’d get in touch . . .
And when I get the words just right,
my signature’s nearly in sight,
I blot the hopes leaked from the pen,
reset the margins, try again.
My crumpled drafts carpet the floor—

Daniel Hornsby’s debut novel has a wonderful road-trippy feeling.

Some days I notice angels everywhere—
light glancing through windows, flying
through stained glass as if through air.

A human ear shaped like a wing,
curiously curving to admit a flare
of sound, tells me of angels listening
to my listening, even as I sing.

Somewhere between our soil and his sun,
between the puddles we drive through
and the oceans he tunes, somewhere

between flickering streetlights and stars,
caves and galaxies, the music of the spheres
and the half notes we play

we think we caught him, calling him away
from the immanence that surrounds him to heed
our cries and sew back the fabric of our lives,

like some button on reason’s foolscap.
We believe the fervor of our voices will gain
the favor he should crown us with,

George Floyd’s dying words on a Minneapolis street have become a lament for the nation. They appear in this carved panel, mixed-media piece by Carl Dixon as the text for what he calls a “sermon in wood” about the many ways people are struggling to breathe free in these troubled times. Beginning with an image of Floyd with the restraining knee of a police officer on his neck, the Mississippi folk artist shows sign-carrying protesters choking from tear gas and a COVID-19 patient on a ventilator. The masked angels in heaven send the message that covering your face saves lives.