That we are all adopted, appallingly / co-opted into Christ’s holiness is
a simple given, and a certainty. / So relax.
He plunged into more and different living beings beneath the river’s surface, also uncaring. Almost-blind fishes swimming between reeds, above rusted cans and keys and teeth and bones.Read More
I’m carrying into the cold / a bulging trash bag, big enough to hold / and hold and stretch and hold, like love itself, /
and outfitted with handy drawstrings.
It’s the taste of that first sip / of coffee, rich and strong, the Mr. Coffee cup warmer / on your desk. It’s having the right pen.Read More
A poem for lost love. “If I wash myself / where will you go?”Read More
Last words from death row. “I love you endlessly, my honeybird.”Read More
The voice of your brother’s blood
is crying to me from the ground.
No thing made
or unmade, or born or yet to be, can separate us from the Love
that drew us forth from weave to know the weave and return to it.
Praise the mockingbird,
unashamed that he is alone, praise the beetle,
the hornet, all night’s shy & vicious ornaments . . .
This silence before
love pulls itself
the current of its own
longing, is the most terrible
silence I know.