More on: Poetry

When will I have time to do
that which I desire,
that which I can’t make
myself do, ever?

The boy inside me is watching, frowning.
But something else is watching him,

saying, sweetheart, saying, it is so hard.

Come up behind me. See through my eyes.

Suffering, I once believed, was a human privilege,
but in that moment I watched as God
died, as God witnessed.

All I can do now is recount their appearance: simple swamp white oak leaves.

In the virgin’s garden a ladder is kept for angels to step up & down.

Growing old is a form of gloating decay where your deepest lines are written by laughter and gravity.

Growing old is a form of gloating decay where your deepest lines are written by laughter and gravity.

I wonder sometimes if these words are like the golden calf: molten, as in a flame, and shaped by doubt.

It’s three a.m., that empty hour
when gangs of theologians prowl the streets looking for some stray angel to accost.