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?