Annunciation

O faith!
(as small as a poppy seed)
how magnificat the news,
for unto us a child is born.

Immanuel--
I do believe.

Sweetheart

“How are you?”

I asked.

You,

lying in a manor-care bed

as Wheel of Fortune played on the TV.

“Well.”

“I’m here,” you said

with what hoped to pass for dinner

sitting on the tray before you,

“but I could really go for a hot dog.”

So rare—these glimpses of lucidity.

Or was it really I who dreamed?

that somewhere watched behind your eyes

the man from Mom’s old stories

(before resuscitation got half-right

what your heart attack had made all wrong)

not just the man who could only play Phase 10?

I loved them both.

We sat and talked

once

on your porch on Arion St.

while Mom and Grandma talked inside.

You pointed out your neighbors,

said,

“She makes him smile every day.”

“That’s what you have to do.”

“Find someone who makes you smile.”

I did.

She drove with me to see you

the night you passed away,

and we collected at your VA bed

like seven cards of one color

(Pap’s collecting blue!)

She and I the last two cards

before you played out your hand

(it didn’t look like yours anymore)

Both my wife and Grandma say you waited,

but I’m not sure it didn’t have to do

with doing 90 in a 55 on the way there.

After you died

Mom,

or Grandma,

(I really can’t remember which)

gave me some copies of the poems you wrote.

I keep them in the bedside table

and scanned to PDF on my computer.

They’re all better than this one.

You wrote about your fear

to meet your dad,

who gave you up.

That bastard didn’t deserve to get to know you.

I do.

I dreamt I did

(after you died)

not just in lucid glimpses—

but seated at my parents’ dining-room table.

You looked like yourself

from my Mom’s old photos,

and you were here.

You remembered everything,

and we just sat and talked

until my damned alarm went off.

Hannah's Complaint; or, Give Me Children, or Else I Die

The LORD said, "Be fruitful, and multiply,"
but the LORD rigs the system
(sometimes)

Euclid Ave, Cleveland, OH

Street-corner prophets

lay out newspaper headlines,

like the word of God in witness,

at the feet of passersby.

“You’ll be sore afraid.

     Buy a Mazzarati.

You can shave your beard,

     but n—z get lined up for adultery.

Pork.

     Lobster—"

(thus saith the LORD)

comes incoherent the sermon on the curb.

Street-corner profits:

a buck or two for the homeless man

offering benedictions

for blind eyes turned and heads let hang.

One keeps silent.

Another rambles.

One lets his pants down

to the ankles.

Go and Do Thou Likewise

And who is my neighbor?
The answer in the question—
(subject complement)
who is my neighbor.

The Ballad of the Knighting of Don Valentino Olivante de Sales, Blesséd of the Cicada

The herald lit upon his blade

whereby its dulcet droning laid

a benediction on that arm—

chanted by Gregorian charm.

Then did knight-errant raise his breast 

to set off once more upon his quest—

cicada blazened on his crest—

Don Olivante, of cicada blest.

The Kingdom of God Is Come Nigh unto You

The Kingdom comes
(is near at hand)
to bear you up—
or bear upon you.

Peace for peace!
or piece by piece,
the dust of Sodom,
long-destroyed,
shakes from sandals
in rebuke.

The Great Day of the LORD Is Near

Bases loaded.

Bottom of the ninth.

Full count.

Two outs.

Run on anything.

Lot

I scratch my nephew’s knee
like my father scratches me.

On the (Thirty-Three-and-One-)Third Day, He Rose Again

Lilies line the chancel stair:
so many phonographs,
each proclaiming
Word traced out by needle-nail
along the grooves of Jesus’ palm.

He is risen.
Alleluia!
He is risen indeed!
crescendos forth
like a body risen from the grave—
first-track-fruit of resurrection.

For Now We See Through a Glass, Darkly

Difficult living
venn-diagrammatically—
already/not yet.

Although the Fig Tree Shall Not Blossom; Neither Shall Fruit Be in the Vines

The lots lie vacant
(sound of steel-mill grinding low)
storefronts abandoned.

Palm Someday

I’ve littered Third Street
for years
with my cloak
and branch of palm,
but at each sounding of the clock tow’r,
no parade yet
has brought You along.

The pavement sings—
the brick-lined sidewalk cries:
blesséd is he who comes
but runs behind.

Penuel

That vision seen along Damascan way—

a thornéd ghost to haunt for all of days:

eyes unbalanced by that dropped-off scale’s weight.

Ne’er more by sight, now made to walk by faith.

What sight was it the prophet had restored? 

Blest Galatia would give its eyes for yours.

Did Jacob from the Jabbok limp away?

If left alive how live as though unchanged?

Give Us This Day

How much is enough?
Nostrils filled as full as guts:
worms and rotting quail.

Carest Thou Not That We Perish

Where is your faith?
     In storm, or stern?
     In howl, or hull?
What manner of man
     commands the squall?