The Twist

We find the conscience by

electric light, with

windows open to the winter.

In the crack of knuckles

you might have heard—

God, who jackknifes sideways

in the belly.

Sh’ma, Yisrael:

There is the sound

of scratching pens,

of rolling wheels,

of fellow-travelers in the night.

Though many worlds seem formed in fear,

all things were made for praising.

And time is not vicious,

O my saint of the pear trees,

not vicious but violent,

like a dark-haired lady.

Time bears away all

the objects and marks of love

with blood in her teeth,

bearing her gods in her womb.

Margate-On-Schuylkill

I was born in this place,

Tin-can son of wooden father.

Pieced from bog and hill,

Stone and sea—

Drawn from dim wood

And the rivers under sun.

I was born in this place

And have been away

For so long that

I spent this road amazed

By fields of corn.

This was the soil

My feet first learned,

And I still believe

That space can be

A balm for mind,

That strain dissolves

In open air

On the hills of Pennsylvania.

Mahlzeit

I should have fought in wars,
I said, and sighed, I should
have taken up arms, been
proud and brave. I should
have fought and died
in wars.

That's bullshit,
she said, painting
letters in red wine with
her finger on the top of
the table. You're bullshit,
she said, looking up at
me, and I had to
concede the point.

Post Meridian

you know, I think that
I was always waiting to
stumble or be pushed—
but that is not how one
falls in love, or not in America

remember the lantern? on the
tortoise, I mean (I know you
read it, same as me), and it
went over the face of the waters
which were there before everything
              I think about that sometimes,
              wondering what words might
              mean to you when they are
              the same words to me

and did you ever read anything
that I wrote and wonder
whether it was meant for you?
somehow I don't think so,
though I was always afraid
you had, and would know
me, through and through

but the truth is that I
never work at anything
with care so you could
see where I came away with
hurts, or where my hands
might leave a mark
              I was never made for recollection,
              dear Socrates, and you will not
              find your truth in me

A Little Night Music

Malach-YHWH, when
he comes, must dress himself
in earth—again, must
speak in words the dust
can hear. But this is
no hardship: God is
not a stranger to the earth.

The presence is like and
not like fire, and the
prophetic word comes not
in but after the convulsion.
So hope abides even after
the wreck we make:
our little lifelong disaster.