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.