What’s woven thenin broken timesis this:a blessing from the linen stripsof lamentationpeeled Lazarus-likeoff our soulsby sisters unravellingwith gentle fingersthe binding of our separate selvesto set us loose

I want to leap like a raging fire,like the lame man who was healed,to thrill and bound with gazelles and goatson mountains and in the

We say “He” without a nameto speak of you,hear our own soundsechoed back from far awayin the monitor’s shush and fuzz. At night, I hear

3:00 am Christmas,and your newly divorcedneighbor’s trying to screwtogether the last wall of a doll housefor the four-year-old she’s finallycoaxed into sleep,when your stereo blaresElvis

after the painting “Jonah” by James Patrick Reid Ready to swallow the fallen, the sea swells. “The waters want me,” Jonah cries, running, running, always running away.

“Do not step out of this area.” —Words written on the wing the plane From this window seat sweet puffs of white disguise irregular quadrilaterals, webs of

after Lawrence Raab are not like the wee hours,where anything might happen or already has— or the blousy hours of early morning,the sheets taut under

The parlor lies beneath its settled dust.The grand oak table in the dining room,Long stripped of plate, cuillere, and candelabra, Reflects the twilight like a

The sky’s so thick with graynot even the faintest shape of cloud shows through.Somewhere behind, the planes drag their wings alonga current of air. The