Poetry

I was a rafter swallowed by a ceiling. I was a parking meter spilling out its coins. I took a number at the post office. I recited Al-Fatiha inside of Ar Rawdah. I

A skeleton swings— from a tree like laundry on fishing line, false horizon so invisible, it can only belong to phantoms. I’ve held out for the dead each year to become less

I flip the folio to the Man of Sorrows Of the Duke and Duchess of Savoy. They Mutely observe Christ excrutiated, Wounded, standing on a lower green alp, A blue chateau behind him,

Gather from this world and its infirmities language that can bear you, and in which you can bear to speak of God: say that sight surrenders petty deities of mild benevolence and cruel