line about Christ being the only
just critic. I write because it takes little
to spark my rage, and Saint Paul said we must
toil with our hands for the end of anger
is murder, and if any would be saved,
they must, with fear and trembling, work it out.
I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me.
Psalm 13:6
Among Luminous Things
In this ocean of ordinary light,
we are reef dwellers. Whether brain coral
or parrot fish or moray, we all do
our bit, then die. The ocean teems entire,
a whole we believe by faith, wrestling
with the darkness and sorrow in our hearts.
I will never regard as wise the fool
who would have me slap a muzzle on
the voice within, small and still, inspiring
praise of whoever it may be who holds
all this in brilliant fullness. I say
let fly with adoration, thanks, and more,
for if this is not the deeper reason
we are here, then there is no reason.
God is present.
Psalm 14:5
Shortsighted
for Bill, believer and photographer
You shoot the glorious—a crimson leaf
clinging to a bare branch, a snow-gray sky—
yet hanker for glory, that pure essence
of the uncreated Father of lights.
Though not one to say there is no God,
I am stuck on the quip about the bird
in hand being better than any two
that may be futzing about in the bush.
No doubt heaven’s great, but this here’s amazing.
Go ahead, call me shortsighted. It’s true:
I’m happy camping in light’s gallery
and praising the hard, full-spectrum effects
of here—now—ahead of me, a red fox
on the pond trail taking her own sweet time.
Lord, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Psalm 15:1
Eucharist
Never have I felt a natural draw
to work anywhere close to an altar,
though, with this loose pile of sticks laid neatly
on a bare patch of earth, the ambition
to live quietly, minding my business,
becomes oblation, an ordinary
work of hands in service to grace. No priest
required, no victim, knife, or temple tax.
To this ground may a sweet, heavenly fire
descend. Here, where air sickens with the stench
of war and the perfunctory smoke
of religious ceremony, I turn—
keep us safe, O Lord our God—
to collect windfall for the coming night.
The sorrows of those will increase who run after other gods.
Psalm 16:4
Rush Hour
I saw troops patrolling Grand Central,
teams of police boarding trains to
and from the universe. In the name of
Code Orange we station gun-bearers
wherever, whenever we feel exposed.
On the train ride out, I draw attention
to a piece of luggage by itself.
The porter assured me the owner
asked to put it there, but I worry
the foreign-born porter was lying.
Is no one, nowhere safe? Hours later
turning onto campus, I wave to Sarge
in his pickup keeping watch by night.
Not even the faithful. . .
As for the deeds of men—
Psalm 17:4
She Said
Let the Spirit write the poems through you.
Yet the Spirit I know works in us as we
work on things like love—putting out the trash
without having to be reminded—which
I am very far from getting right. Poems
may serve love, but it would not be God’s way
to bypass our humanity to make
texts pleasing to him. Otherwise they might
emerge in meadows like rocks urged up through
topsoil by freeze and thaw. To hell with poems.
What matters: some help with love, for we who
frame laws and build flimsy arguments
resist at every turn the Spirit’s work
and shut our hearts against the gentle friend.
He
