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Poetry

In such a silence as the aftermath
of love allows, late
September and the sun has turned

its sheer skin inside out.
This emptiness

inside me where a God
was blossoming once.
I hear it like a broken oar;

it is enough. I hear it
like a cooper’s hawk perched

on that oak branch, the sky above
a plum-blue shawl.

This is no parable,
Jesus tells his disciples.
I want to show you in

between my words
a carnal will to be reborn.

Late September,
late light plays me
like a string quartet.

Now listen, Jesus says.
You must forever live
with what you would become.

 


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