Index
Perfection,
Perfection
After All the Words
The Call of Abraham
Hogs and Salvation
Rolling the Stone from the
Grave
The Elder Son
I Have Two Sons
Moses: For One Scrawny Doubt
Eve's Version
Mary Magdalene: Banned by Law
A Place to Hide: Light On
A Place to Hide: Light Off
A Man of Tomahawk
St. John's Turkey Vultures
The Ox's Broad Behind
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Page 3
That tree in the middle of the garden
spreads its roots like claiming a kingdom,
its top pierces above the canopy
to spread cool glory on the floor below,
yields gnostic apples to those who stretch
to pluck autonomy and taste the pain.
The serpent knows where the power is
and speaks to Eve alone when death
is on the day's agenda. Behind the beauty
there's the clout.
"I consult no man
before I eat, when I am not consulted
in the giving of the names to cattle, birds,
and every beast that moves upon the earth.
I do not ask permission. So I am weak?
This man of mine does not theologize
nor calculate the dare. Without a question
he follows me and bites. So he is strong?"
You are a hiding place for me. Psalm 32:7
Fugitive seeking a cot in the palace,
I bring only my naked self, hunger for meat.
No other coin is legal tender,
except my thirst and resolve in the buff.
I can tell a good hiding place
by the way the shelves are stocked.
The cupboards are beyond breadth and length;
my yardstick's too short for storerooms without end.
I bring only the mess I've made of my life
as offering. Here I bear my void for filling
It is my nakedness God wants.
With my desire the Lord builds palaces.
God is my refuge forever, my new address.
You are a hiding place for me. Psalm 32:7
Running on empty, I head for your palace,
shut the door on the cold. But no one
answers when I call your name. There's not
even a janitor's closet where I can
hunker down between dustpans
and industrial ammonia.
Of all your mansions,
none is more hung with damask and silence. So,
Lord, when you switch off
the one dangling light,
I grope around the moldy cellar.
I'll run on empty,
but I'm not leaving.
Forty Sherman tanks,
six foot wings,
red bullet-bald head,
battle-Cobra eyes,
soaring over dung-brown
barnyards, searching
for week-old afterbirths;
above I-94, spying out
road kill cats
and death city.
Whatever stinks
they'll eat: dead rats,
dead fish, dead dogs.
Any Minnesota carrion
Call the Abbot!
Toll the bell!
The buzzards circle
low above my cell.
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