loves Roger, so when the preacher
went on for twenty minutes about sheep,
the Shepherd, and the sheep pen, Arlys winced
and prayed for Roger. Prayed he would not want
to walk home alone, cancel their outing
to the state park, return to the city.
Arlys loves God, believes Roger’s doubting
could be turned to confidence overnight.
If only he would hear the Shepherd’s voice,
she would sleep beside him in the fold, lack
nothing, anoint his head with oil.
Lift up your heads, O you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors.
Psalm 24:7
Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge
Easter morning
Walt Whitman’s Brooklyn behind us, we are walking
to Manhattan and a late brunch in Chinatown:
steamed dumplings, rooster sauce, pan-fried sesame bread,
plastic bowls of spicy mushroom soup, oolong tea.
We walk above traffic, the river; beside the JMZ line,
share elevated pedestrian lanes with cyclists, Hassidim,
speed walkers, hippies, Latinos, arty types in all black.
You are here—a mantra learned from maps on kiosks
in suburban malls—plays in my head, and softly (to myself)
I offer up an Easter hymn under Jerusalem-blue skies.
All families will bow before him; he is the King of glory.
To the south, a thin column of cloud rises like altar smoke.
The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof.
In this light, even the jaded skyline stands transfigured.
He instructs sinners in his ways.
Psalm 25:8
With Bill At Bafflin Sanctuary
We walk woodland trails cut by volunteers
and kid about total depravity
which, pertaining to salvation, translates
even “the greatest geniuses are blind-
er than moles.” The path is soft underfoot,
the laurel late-blooming. Beside a pond
he unpacks his camera. Can a snapshot
reveal the affliction of our nature?
I take refuge under translucent leaves,
leave him to his patient compositions.
But what’s the point? His kind wife is dying,
and he has left the house to take pictures
of ferns uncurling. Do I hear myself?
Are they not—forgive me—portraits of her?
Test me, O Lord, and try me.
Psalm 26:2
General Confession
In each promise of faithfulness, traces
of countless betrayals: averted eyes,
a voice’s tremor. Like the air we breathe
or the glances we exchange with strangers
on strobe-lit dance floors, we test positive
for impurity. But do not expect
a list of lurid details in these lines;
I am neither Catholic nor Lowell nor Plath.
I am merely—how does the song go—“prone
to wander.” So have we any chance,
this side of heaven, at a constant heart?
Or even modest progress toward that end?
The word’s out: love covers a multitude
of sins. Is this the best we can hope for?
I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
Psalm 27:13
To Self-Pity
What a force you are! Cyclonic, godlike,
irresistible as lust is irresistible, and thick
with generations of flung wreckage, blunt
as thugs. Who, coracled in mere feeling,
can stand against such compelling torque?
I confess: you are a familiar ride, a drug
of choice, a sluttish changeling, your blouse
half-unbuttoned, eyes fierce with loathing.
Where, in my soul’s fluid world, currents
meet, there, turning on the slightest axis
of an insecurity, you—siren vortex—
draw me into your sweet, insatiable self.
Old friend and nemesis, there, too, a Rock
of refuge may be found. To Him I cleave.
Be their shepherd and carry them forever.
Psalm 28:9
No Worries
for my tour guide at the interview
We take them as they come, ages twelve
to nineteen, dress them in blue blazers, and run
them ragged. We get away with it because
their parents worry, and the lawns are presidential.
If
