which the creator of the universe responds with a careless
Nay but thou didst laugh
or Yes you did. You laughed.
depending on the translation.
But no matter; she lies and it doesn’t make a difference because then
the men rose up from thence.
It was time to wrangle over Sodom and Gomorrah
and the issue of Lot’s wife.
Of the Career of That Enigmatic Man,
nothing much to remark.
The case is closed.
It’s a tale unknown,
singular as a forest
flower, unsown,
part of no garden,
of a color vague
as the maples’ pink
spring haze.
Whatever transpired left
with his last breath,
and though other tongues
may take it up,
for all I know,
there’s nothing to remark,
just another career
canceled in the dark.
St. Joseph’s Church, Stephentown, New York
Little church fitted out in oak,
a nutshell or reversed boat,
small barque, four o’clock,
autumn dark.
He’s gone again,
again he’s gone
—toppled tree,
comet pulled down,
daily distress
that asks no less
than that we contrive
to bring him back alive.
Light wind frets the beams.
A warped kneeler keens.
Our silence could be prayer
or mere reverie
as we ply to renovation
from catastrophe—
rough reckoning,
wide sea.
Martin Burnham, 1959–2002
Too poor, too tough—missionaries
made bad hostages, but he kept them both.
The expensive raid could not be repeated—
besides, maintenance was easy.
At night, chaining the husband to a tree
passed for security,
and even when his ribs ridged his filthy shirt,
he could be trusted with the rice.
Though his questions were annoying, in the end,
the kidnapper himself wondered
what kind of God guided the rescuer’s bullet
straight to Martin’s heart.
Village Church
That bird like no bird and half a horse
hold up the doorway and march to the curve of the arch.
Someone said, Here—St. Martin,
and maybe a pelican to fill up the space.
Someone’s hands cut and hefted
a sliver of limestone,
A mason good at birds who emerged winter nights
sooty with the brazier smoke.
Someone selected colors for the scene that would be
a village story for centuries.
Then they left on a road later paved
to bring me,
fretted by the same north wind that took the paint,
then most the rest.
Who’s to tell what’s left?
What was an idea
is now just a suggestion,
stone on the way back to what it came from.
The Winchester Bible
Filigree in foil, beasts
done delicately, vine
and blossom intricacy
to the glory of God,
by a king’s generosity,
the first letter of each chapter
done separately.
Though scribes
must adhere to accuracy,
illluminators may surprise
with nature transmogrified
in colors from stones
