More on: Poetry

Death sitting bored there, yawning. All that jive.

Had Lazarus been in hell,
surely Jesus would have left him there.

I will become, dust

Perhaps our sons are signs, agitating the distracted
to gaze at the frescos restored to the apse

With a mechanical click,
The light ceases,
Leaves you deep-keeled in darkness.

Yes to mortal love and anguish.

Death is so awkward.

Sometimes I think my soul is like a fist
that on occasion opens.

I need her like I need the falseness
of my own voice explaining death to a toddler.

A baby raven calls to me by the window. I’m high in the morning again.