Familiar Angel

Cold fever falls
the stars over
the child's city-

the church
where I was born
rises up

to kiss
or curse
or slay me...

the blazing stare
of stone-imprisoned
saints,

the opalescent shine
of gold-winged
prayers,

the long hall
that leads
to God's chair,

somehow,
summons back
my shame;

ever cradled
in the pressing
arms

of that dark,
familiar
angel.

Captive

Seized but unoccupied
the stranger's heart

and I recognize my own
hands reaching for light-

corpse white, eager.

Who confuses the carnivore
for the penitent?

These are more difficult:
the cold design of stars and

the long-winged harrier
whose hooks pierce their mark.

The skin fails its course,
the universe unfolding-

a diamond-backed snake, strands
of twisted hair- gold as sunset,

the peel of that fatal,
prophetic fruit in the mouth

of Judas; captive, sealed up
and nailed to its coffin.

Desert

The desert
is opened

tonight, heat
is lost...

tiny lizards
hoard fire

in cup-shaped
bells.

Astonished

... grew night
in earthen pot

dipped beaks
in water

as if
astonished

and sky
the size
of eyes

blinked
light.

Unknown Man E (draft on the finding of an unmarked mummy)

That summer, the jackal gods
guarded the underground
black-desert kingdom,

secrets kept locked
to their wells-

grave wax, sheepskin,
hennaed nails

the color of rust
on fossilized shale.

His name, not a name
but a reason to rest

whose heart fixed
to chamber, an egg

softly slipped in its shell,
a terrible, motionless season.

Ruth

Whither thou goest, I will go;
and where thou lodgest, I will lodge:
thy people shall be my people,
and thy God my God.
—Ruth i. 16.


All the city of my people
rose up before one

could know the other;

six measures of barely
to raise up the name

of the dead.

And she went
and came

and gleaned
the fields-

made bread
from grains
of honey.

At the feet
of the reaper

she slept

in a cradle
of thorn.

The Gallow

I saved the last word
for you- like the word

we never knew
until the end.

I have spoken
for so long
my teeth
remembered

what my heart
has swallowed.

All the glory
of silence
becomes a road

we did not follow.

I braid a rope
of word

to hang myself
beside you.

Night Vision

Listen at the door;
no one's future
is opened.

It is my life,
I can fill my arms
with nothing

if I want to.

On a cloudy day,
light is missing.

What of vision?

I see two things
in darkness-

my mother's face
and a wheat field

burning.

Benediction in B Minor (exercise in B's)

Boom, boom, bang
the boards, below
the bridge-

bright
as blossom.

Blessed,
barren, burnt
bouquet-

beauty's
birthmark

(bound
in bundles)

beneath
the buttress,

begrudged

a borrowed
benediction.

To Be Found (draft)

New and collected-
God's prayers

for the beggars
and thieves,

a connoisseur's
patience for the rare-

a heavenward eye,
a loosened tongue,

a clear, small bell.

In the beginning,
eternity was an idea

an unmade ladder,
a child's blueprint

a maiden's luxury;

until stars, welded
in their silver crown,

waters etched
into the ground,

and fiery quasars left
their space to travel onward.

We call things rare
when there are but few

to be found.

(draft) Stranger

... and the confessions
of nature- in whose ear?

the great eye of tree,
the speech of bird, the last

request of light as it passes
over backs of deer?

Witness the grasses,
the giant skeleton of sky,

silver lines of star,
the forest changing.

We are but
strangers here.

Topsoil

My sorrow
has a direction...

flaming lilies,
dark feathers,
the depthless shore,

the unwritten word.

It is not enough
to love a page

of verbs, of ink,
of grave-

the topsoil.

Perhaps, you
were right...

poets
should never
mate-

what of their
offspring?

Goodbye, Dear Cloud

If I ever loved you...
near the garden
a single stone,

unturned

with eyes
like your mother's-

round, grey
and quiet.

Your's
resembled cloud-

white smoke
and always
changing.

Goodbye,
my dear
cloud.

Marked

There are things
we cannot escape...

drawn to damage
like the fatal bird,

the wolf
to forgotten fields,

the blade
to its mark

between the ribs.

We were not made
to suffer

this confusion.

Jacob

At the well
they spoke
of rain

while
the brown
desert spider

prepared
its meal.

Spirits
of burnt
mountains

whispered
in the voice
of her father-

"Rachel,
draw up
the water".

Outlasting Moths

A season
of antiquity,

the marrow
of a long
thigh bone-

life

gnawed thin
by large
grey moths...

see how light
continues
to stray

through each
worm-eaten
portal,

(the exact point
at which desire

enters and exits
the body)

survives
its journey

long after
roaring wings

of nocturnal
insects

have fallen
quiet.

Absent

Disturbing, isn't it?
that place
where all eyes
are not vital
appendages;

we don't speak
about unusual
dreams...

that girl-child
who carved
flesh soft

with sharp
things.

Crazy, isn't it?
the meaning
of "to feel"
sometimes

the absence
imprints itself

against
the grain
of stone.

All Violence

Review love: build,
breath, enter,

fall

backward,

the mind,
all violence,

shuddering-

nameless.

Take measure: rise,
shift, resolve,

float-

the body
on air

lit-up

inside.

Open Window

We left the window open
to let the warm night in-
flannel (dusk's grey cloak)
billows through our seamless skin.

Filled our ears, flocks of bird,
beat wings in unison,
rhythm of its frantic feather
stirs heated wind.

Gleaming of our linen sheets,
moon, a yellow sapphire,
dug from bed or veins, ignites
a slow and rising fire.

Facing East

1
A worship rug
facing east

2
kneel down
(determine)

3
every direction
has purpose

4
of purpose;
the weave

5
of stained
thread

6
the weight
of knees

7
rivet
the pelvis

8
arched
in prayer.

Perspective

From that place,
cold, correct
and blue,

I build
a fire,

high
as tower

and call it:
moon.

Distinction

You can't keep
yourself unique
forevor.

Pigeons gather
on dung-stained
pavement-

mottled brown,
poor and hungry;

among them,

not one
distinction.

The Unexpected

We begged them
to pass over us...

sails of the enemies
ships, grey-spackled
clouds, ravages

of time.

The unexpected
happened-

we were forgotten,
covered with stone,
ushered into the void

and no one
remembered.

This Hour

What a strange, mysterious
thing this hour before it wakens
or shakes off its terrible ease.

There is no burden
as the hibernating tree,
the heavy cross of sleep-

the dead wood;

and morning
hesitates-

sage-green,
shadowed.