write a poem, He saysI can feel His hand on mine but I have no poem to writeexcept He opens my mind I wish to

A skein and a gaggle each requiresmore than one bird. When it joinsa group, what will the nomenclaturefor my soul become, when no longerearthbound but

thinks he’s the archangel Gabriel.Nighttime is when such thingscan happen. We permit twilightto linger inside when he talks.That’s not what I heard, I say.It’s what

Five specks in V-formation move in smoothapproach. The sun transmits a flushed alarm,thin flames of tangerine among the crests.The small fleet coasts our way and

After the illness struck,those who lived near enoughgathered to bury the child. The church doors sighed open;the neighbors slippedinto the marbled blue night, all but

A downed oak, toppled by time, pithless logleveled, imploding, rotting edificeunder blown snow; above, warped-and-wovenscene of leafless torsos, sky’s grays threadedthrough like tattered banners attesting

In dreams an island looms in silhouetteand speaks through the outline of a mouthand murmurs it’s an idea not an island,not an island. An idea

That moment when, in the midst of wreckageand tears, you see a scarlet cardinalacross the way, and last evening,he and his mate, more russet than

The Holy Spirit comes in while you are quiet. There is nothingvoiced yet many questions while our tongues are still. In the yearsahead of us,