pull them from my soul,
or if it be more your will,
let my inward ear be deaf
to their buzzing. Let me be
wholly focused on our talk
here in this secluded place,
here where holiness resides
for the moment, for this day.
Disaffirmation
Why is my head a stone, my heart dry wood?
Have I drunk poison and am paralyzed?
Once towering, how am I now downsized?
I creep and crouch who early marched and stood.
These are declining days of febrile light,
of wizened biceps, quadriceps of wax.
A desperate inhabitant of shacks,
I have misplaced my attitude and height.
It may be for the best. I’ve died before,
or almost did: on mountain roads, in slums;
when pocket-poor, while feeding on scant crumbs,
and sizing up for taste the shoes I wore.
But now at least I’m grateful for this least:
my height now grown by having been decreased.
Bouquet
This pink and yellow messenger of scent
is in its seventh day and sags.
But if its lovely form is spent,
its gift remains and rises from these rags.
The vase around it stands the same and still,
and offers water like our God.
But roses decompose until
we sniff their memory and think, “How odd.”
How odd that something permanent should take
such pains for temporary bliss.
And yet this vase stands for their sake
and holds their beauty like a lifted kiss.
The Lump of Clay to the Potter
When You slap me onto the wheel’s exact center
with your accurate eye, then set me dizzying around,
may I not wobble, but sit still as I spin fast.
When You insert your thumbs to open my mouth,
may I yawn the perfect O of the perfect prayer.
When You touch me both outside and inside at once,
lifting me up, making me upright but more fragile,
may I not collapse into an ashtray, but stand
as your cereal bowl, your vegetable server,
or, if You will, even a vase, a casserole, a teapot.
May there be no pockets in me to expand in the kiln,
for your other pots may be shattered if I explode.
May we all serve at your table, meekly waiting
for your eye, your hand to lift us, your lip to sup.
The Comics Page
Their week is black and white, as if they slid
back every Monday to that wintry scene
before a technicolor screen had bloomed.
They’re cabined also in a meager space,
obeying rules against more room or joy.
But then on Sunday all their lives are changed.
The lawns and Blondie’s dress are green as hope;
the sky above Prince Valiant is pure blue.
Page after page is spread and packed with hues
like flower beds in spring, or bowls of eggs
dyed pink or mauve, yellow or chartreuse
to celebrate the new red blood of life.
Tract for Houseguests at the Emperor’s Estate
Remember always that you do not own the house.
If this fact causes you to be less careful
with its structure or its contents,
you will not be looked upon favorably.
While you may at decent intervals suggest wiser behavior
on the part of other guests, it is not your role to expel them.
The Emperor has better ways of doing so than you do.
When you are first seated at table,
your manners will be crude and offensive to other guests,
as well as to His Majesty.
This should not throw you into despair,
but it should shame you enough to learn better behavior.
Among other things,
this means never taking food from your neighbor’s plate,
or drinking from her cup,
or throwing your bones in his direction.
If the servants are negligent in serving hungry guests,
you are expected to rise,
even from a place of honor,
and fetch their food yourself.
Do not be surly in this,
for the task is a higher honor than the place you rose from.
Avoid
