Your Keening Edge

There is no comfort with the inward wolf,

no solace in that tender sea

            and the earth is heavy

            underfoot. Who is like the

                        wolf, and who can make

                        war against him?

                                                             not I

                                                             not I

                                                                                and saint grace

                                                                      went

                                                                      trilling

                                                                      in the air…

                                                O clockwork heart, O

                                                sawdust head! hear

                                                how earthy things may

                                                speak! you liquor-eyed,

                                                you petrol-belly boy

           

Attend, all starry powers

                               Behold, you vaunted angels

                                                                 The earth, too, can sing;

                                                                 the earth, too, will

                                                                 kiss the Son

The Sitting Room

I just want it to go

well, he said

It won’t, it never does,

she said, and traced

a sigil in the air

with a burning cigarette

Damn it all, he said—

and the smoke

hung like a

prayer, like a silver-haired

amen