Requiem

Seagull Wings

               After she sets the table,

          the lord’s scullery maid goes

     for another loaf of hard bread,

     pickle, and pot of beet soup.

On the way, she finds cosmos

have rooted in the planking

and the fieldstone around her

kitchen door. How long has she

been setting the table since cosmos

grow quickly in days but not minutes.

Did the slow hike to the village’s hearth

take too long or just long enough

for iris to sprout alongside the paving

stones. Olive trees and some honeysuckle

and heather too have formed and flowered,

and by the time she arrives at their table,

again, her lord and guests, come and gone.

From the open window, a gale stirs,

tosses flakes from the tablecloth, glasses

shatter on the floor, and chairs

overturn. She doesn’t cry. She gleans

the remnants. All crumbs and seeds fill

seventeen baskets, but who is left to eat?

Outside the birds sing, the leaves, red,

     the ordinary sky, blue: what to do,

what to do? To the dustbin and compost

     heap takes seventeen trips —the angel

          with seagull wings overhead,

               his mouth of thorns,

               "Who is left to eat."

Cellular Prayer

O, lord unbegotten,   unmoved

and eternally powerful   in your lab,

deliver us from this   experiment.

Lord who brought together   ourselves

—cells, cells that began   long

before us in solution still   independent

—you drew us all together   as if dirt

then clay: then you   breathed your

essence into this   amalgamation

and formed living beings   as such.

Independent cells became   organized

and teamed, so that beings   could

become then drop fruit   to feed us.

Omniscience

Get out of my head.

You’re clogging my love,

my mercy: what’s left of it for you.

How many times can you invade

a righteous mind and get away

with a few good looks at my

friends from this, your god high.

Do you give them the benefit

of doubt as I would do, or do you

lord over them like God who never

doubts His ever living wisdom:

didn’t He let my friends get away

with shit at school while those same

kicks landed me in detention?

That’s God and His point of view:

whatever I see isn’t made for me:

it’s made for Him —no that’s wrong.

That’s a lie. You’ve been stealing

His voice and using it badly for so

long that you’ve become jealous.

And when I look through His eyes,

if I can call them eyes, this world

grays as though His mind colors

what’s before it: random retinal

rustlings as God’s mind and my

breath wind their way through

my throat: thrown back —myself,

the garden, the old pots, the pans

covering my tacky stove, my

dinner table, plates full of angel

hair —all seem sprinkled

with chrism.

Cellular Manifesto

All living beings are   composed

of individual cells   but grouped

together for the good   of fall,

and fall creation. Thus   have you

sprechen through our   nature

and revealed yourself   as the lord

of our universe as   reflected

in the flaws of our   universe.

You are absent   and unchangeable,

unmoved and eternal.   Begin gravity:

drawn to the beauty   of you who are

unmoved and yet the spur   to creation.

Supreme in your   meditations, your

anal retention,   the impetus of every

thing that exists.   Yet you are

separate and above all   sought

but never found. On the day   you

abstained from work,   you blessed

the day, hallowed it   as a day

of pests that sustain   us.

Requiem 

The friends I love I worry them

because I believe in angels. Not winged

ones but free walking ones

with balloons held to sky.

'My friends,' I say, 'think about them

arm in arm, fingers twining in and out,

not singing but linking arms,

sometimes.' If angels have arms

and wings, mine do. What worries?

I ask for a long life and afterlife

—believe it or not —with little cakes

and herbal tea brewed by the angelic

sun: 'Don’t worry, don’t worry, my

life has no end.' My life won’t end

as long as I long for your touch,

my friends, and our love, loves

with my angels who thrash

inside us, clouds.