In the Candleroom at Saint Bartholomew’s on New Year’s Eve
By Poetry Issue 83
A long time spent trying, kneeling, to light a votive for my mother from a votive for another. Each fire floats on shallow viscous water. With my stick, I wet wicks, extinguishing prayers instead of sending up mine: I loved you every day, will. My stick blackens, does not carry light. Evening bells ring. The…
Read MoreThe Egret Tree
By Poetry Issue 83
In the past, I have asked for what this may be, more faithfully perhaps, haven’t I, for some covenant of intimate favor waiting along a byway? So how then should it be seen, what begins as just a blue, late morning crease between heavy rains, noticing the usual roadside toll of…
Read MoreThe Holy Fool Meets Himself on One of His Highways
By Poetry Issue 83
Down the long road leading me back to me I saw my holy friends. I called hello. This is not allegory. Mind me well. I do not speak in tongues or prophecy. I talk in the plain speech of poetry, which is to say, the morning gives me stars, leftover nights from which to fabricate…
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