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THREE
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METAPHYSICAL
For years now
I've turned to you in doubt,
like a charismatic
opening the Bible,
my finger drawn
to the exact word
where you'd speak to me
in confirmation,
or warning. Forgive me.
I haven't always
listened
when I've asked you, John Donne,
to undo the dark. Anoint
my forehead. Guide
my hand beyond pages
that you've left
to be my light. Bless
my squinting third eye.
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LONG AFTER DARK AT THE CHURCH CARNIVAL
I have an itching palm to situate the stars,
to chart the cost and progress of a soul.
Maybe this is how a widow wants to feel
breaking the token clot of earth between
her fingertips. As if the power had left it.
The beach scene came right because we were
expectant, still full of hopes.
I am a child again, unable to explain
the hole I am digging. Who moans?
We bring to each other the same degree
of trust we bring to ourselves.
The hartebeest's horns are shaped like a lyre.
Do not tell me though I ask you
where strawberries grow on the side of a cliff.
Long after dark at the church carnival
I am praying, predictable as cat's-cradle.
I keep looking up the moon's sleeve.
There is a sharp lull into new feeling
being thrown back again into the sea.
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ON HEARING A LECTURE ON STARS
There are too many of them.
They shrink the earth
to a town. I am turned
into an ant
on the sidewalk, afraid
of a shoe. They destroy
my God, too. Who
is left to hear, to count
every hair,
every sparrow?
The houselights flood.
outside, the sun's
a hollow hand
conning my skin
back to life. I scan
the sky, no stars
in sight. Door to door
I carry old wines
in a suitcase,
my window on Sinai
smashed by an astronomer.
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THE CHAPEL THAT TEMPTED O'KEEFFE TO BECOME A CATHOLIC
A white linen throw, homely
as a blank canvas,
tops the square altar stone
large enough to pin down
Isaac. Did the artist rejoice
in the weave? Did the woman
recall the child she lived
without? Two wrought iron
candle-holders
curve like horns of doubt
on the lectern made of driftwood.
Raindrops like fingertips
tap in code. No hiding here
from the wilderness.
Christ dies again
in a sky-blue loin cloth.
Unstained, the windows weep
and blur the red hills.
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AT THE SMALLEST NATIONAL CEMETERY, BALLS BLUFF, VA
The sun pales,
all of its blood let.
The air is thick with devil's
darning needles. Tops
of trees whisper
victory / surrender….
We can almost hear
sharp cracks of rifles,
human animal cries,
the whinnies of drowning horses.
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PLANES
An hour ago, alive
but losing power,
t...
