Poetry

I prayed for a poem. A worthy poem was expected. I was unworthy, unstill of spirit.

Take the globe by her imagined corners & stretch her flat like evening against the sky ...

Once, before children, my wife and I took a nest of fledglings to a woman ...

You’re there, but you’re not. You glance behind every so often, to those words you said as a kid.

Re-enter the world, a world where, no matter how it first happened, the spark of your conception, too, was Spirit ...

The doctor's office grants no place beyond the floor's gray lines to form and color ...

No longer bent like weighted branches or shrivelled like apples in the bottom of a bushel basket ...

We chose not to see how close it hovered. She had been sick so long we had grown accustomed to her bright scarves ...

An affinity with those men in Babylon unfazed by fire ...