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.