This world is a garden fearfully madean unruly orchard once well formedthough now decayed I am a gardenerwho mourns well-meaning overwhelmed misguided having let children

In the beginningwas the darklike the darkon the roadto Cochranewhen at highwayspeedto flick headlights offwas to flirt with oblivion the darklike the long middle-of-the-nighthall on

Genesis 16 I stumble      in desperate      headlong flightfrom the sharp bite      of a woman     emptyof what her god has promised      enviousof what seems to be

Judges 13:18 I was out in the field     where the wheatgrows golden     in the heat of the afternoon sunwhen the grain parted     & you came

after Henri Nouwen’s studyof Rembrandt’s paintingof Christ’s parable I look at the handsembracing            clutching               caressing                 the hands I can only seebecause Rembrandt saw them

for the Sons of Korah (Psalm 84) Swallows swoop across the courtyard well above the notice of those alonefacing stone robed in black They flit

You have my heart which is similar to the moon’s grip on this night Dark branches reach high to embrace the sky waters bulge in