November 2005

Never the bark and abalone mask
cracked by storms of a mastering god,
never the gods’ favored glamour, never
the pelagic messenger bearing orchards
in its beak, never allegory, not wisdom
or valor or cunning, much less hunger
demanding vigilance, industry, invention,
or the instinct to claim...

Epitaph the Viaduct Meat and Three.

Crayon down how it supper-called glow-belling, gloam-knelling
for appetites butterish-gold.


Cut-shape and mucilage a crepe (and crimple-paper) back-drape: of
overpass-overhang, splinch- and sunder-ditch of feeder-creek, its oaks.


Pedestal...

Finally, I gave up on obeisance,
and refused to welcome
either retribution or the tease

of sunny days. As for the can’t-be-
seen, the sum-of-all-details,
the One—oh, when it came

to salvation I was only sure
I needed to be spared
someone else’s version of it.

The small prayers...