More on: Poetry

She now wanders at large to the notorious peril to her soul.

The ancients,” she says, “thought rivers began in heaven.” / Don’t they? But I’m too amazed to listen. / “We have the same words,” I say. “In our ancient Bible / all the rivers run to the sea. But ours return.

Preacher-lady donned her slender catch of cloth / & ushered folk in. She said a few words, had us linger / with loneliness awhile.

to place the logic of the visible at the service of the invisible / Odilon Redon writes of painting a vase of flowers”

Caesar, highest, / seated where Caesar sits, the granite drape / of his vermilion cape, and there beneath it / Caesar’s bare breast

In the myth, Adam, the man, labors above / warm red earth, voracious earth that takes / the life it gives into itself, as soon replenishes… / What have we done, or what through us was done?

I recorded the pet ouroboros / ate / bookended / möbius stripped / just had an all-around
naked voiced weekend.

“Truth and justice are two points so fine that our instruments are too blunt to touch them exactly” —Pascal

Just imagine how it must be for the maker, the mind / behind creation who weaves it all together in an expansive act of love

Micah Bateman channels T.S. Eliot, slantwise. “In the room the women come and go / Talking of Leo DiCaprio.”