The Truth

Sharp knife is next to the body.

Shiny silver, shiny blood...

It was an easy movement into the chest.

There was nothing to it.

Really…

We thought the divide was so great: shaky, worn body near the top

of a rocky summit.

But the truth stays

steady like the Ground Zero

American flag:

We are closer to

the red than we think.

How then do we keep the promise

bigger than wisps of good luck dandelion flowers?

Bleed from the vine.

A Job To Do

A glass cleaner is dangling

outside the windows

that are his today.

His reflection is misty.

At any moment,

this flying soldier

could go down, down

past the typing and the clicking and the calling

He still cleans.

Do or do not.

That’s it.

A wipe and another wipe...

Still dirty...

Hollow

She cried into the tree hollow.
She felt every bit
the small one of the forest that night.
She wasn't a young deer, though.
She had been out of the herd for a while.
She looked up at the trees:
Thr oaks were creatures
not delighted with her presence.
She wasn't sure why she called
out into the hollow
of a tree of all things.
She'd just thought
that someone would
hear her and wonder at
her cry.
Earlier, she'd gone by the herd
where her father stood: his head high and swung back.
And she'd cried out to him:
It was deep and from
the pit of her.
And he'd pranced off for berries,
disappearing into the light, the way only he could.

Surprise On a City Street

Eighteen hours and you were here.

And they were surprised in the middle of the night,

there was enough light to see:

creation.

They wonder at the construction

of fingernails

and pupils.

It is enough

to withstand

the excrement and the pulling

hard on the bodies.

Grasping for the milk as if he were digging, digging...

Then there is the wide-mouthed-animal-screaming-him.

But…
On this long walk,

he is graffiti,

or loopy messages

discovered

in concrete

when they pause.

Breath

Little ones touch the nativity.
Mary's birthed:
the breath that will move the dirt into place.
No grubby crook of an arm
could stop this.
Salty in our mouths, bloody in our mouths...
A groan.
For a moment,
I can't do it.
But you...
Precious you...

Cemetery Stop

His grave

used to have roots growing

out of the stone.

But they had it cut back, those American tourists:

appalled, they were

at the choice

to let the greenery

grip it with its

dirty hands.

“It was as if “they” didn’t care,” the tourists said.

“They” just knew

that thick skin

And candy and money

Lay crumpled under

the grave.

The tourists hated

the thin cross most of all.

“Oh, if only there were angels carved there,” the tourists said.

Gratitude

You say, Lord, our body

is dust.

Mess on the floor

is all I am.

With your swift

broom,

you can remove

me.

That’s it.

A fade

behind your blinds...

But

my soul…

Oh, my soul…

The trinity part

with the deep whisper

prays

and

prays

for

the filth.

Thank you.