Poetry

I saw the upright, the one with wolfish eyes hungering behind a window. “Let the Lord overtake,” she said, “him who walks securely in pretense. For my eyes have seen the secret moments,

When He began creating Billows of dark clouds I assumed His perceptions must be The eye of the storm. I couldn’t yet see That the Hurricane would whip away His baby fat

A handing down. To us from Latin trans-, over (or across or beyond), and dare, to give. Also, to surrender through traditus, traditio and traditionem. Down, say the Via Appia, or the Appian

Dust rises from soil and spins centrifuge-style around nucleus merry-go-round, mitochondrion swimming in cytoplasm kiddy pool. One cell to two. Two cells to trillion, hovering, electric hum. Sparks of white-hot light from cell

like a horse broken by work like a tire worn without tread my father said to me let us go home that year land lay fallow and we saw machinery sold my father