Poetry

Lord, I have loved your sky,
Be it said against or for me,
Have loved it clear and high

It took that pause to make him realize
The mountain he was climbing had the slant
As of a book held up before his eyes

Ingres drew her
with rudimentary breasts
and pre-pubescent wings
barely sketched in.

“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning

On the quietest days,
when the sea just hovers in the background
and the light is no particular color
I forget summer,

Inside
 that mud-hive, that gas-sponge,
  that reeking
   leaf-yard, that rippling

Is this the very face
of an angry God, or simply
his instrument?

        There isn’t anything in this world but mad love. Not in this world. No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love. And of course, no reasonable love. There are a hundred paths through the world that are easier. But, who wants...

We picnic by these bleached ruins
a few miles from the village
where we bought this rough
bread and cheese, this bottle

On nights when you can’t sleep
I think you open the doo
to the sky