More on: Poetry

Look as upward they gaze: those blessèd, dancing round and around in that circle of praise.

Fingers folded not in prayer, but interlaced. So as not to be torn asunder.

The left hand still flexes with the boy’s death, but on the right, a reprieve: the wrist wilts.

Let’s suppose that there is a spotlight waiting within the heart, and the heart is innocent because it is made of paper and can be cut.

My father’s latest stray, half-grown half-husky racing through puddles, won’t last long.

And there’s my mother, trembling for the safety of her kids, saying something at the looming man, trying to reason where there’s no room for reason.

The sting took her away, past the moon, and she was nowa nuqta and now a vowel.

I was fire from which air is withheld, a charged element.

If one comes to you saying ‘God said’ or ‘God speaks to me in secret,’ tread upon such words as a moth treads possible prey.

Everywhere on my stroll among these rolling hills this morning, I see nude young men. I’d say they are naked as well. Many are undressed. Quite a few have no clothes on.