A quick wish adds up to

nothing, to which the impoverished king

can attest. Anathema sit.  His late

queen, spared the shame of seeing,

calling him dunce.  Neither power, nor

light, nor eternity, nor time.  Having

taken, all life long, too little

care. The children of God should

not have any other country here

below but the universe itself.  Now

this other fellow, once so amorous,

gropes from bench to shadow, eyes

aglitter, tongue aflame.  Hovel to madness

to mud.  Nor knowledge, nor truth,

nor kingship, nor wisdom, nor divinity,

nor goodness.  If there were a

mirror in which to gaze, o,

what awful grief.  Left with only

           a poor, dead fool.

Intent, which doesn’t always hit its

mark.  It’s a moth who would

be king, a stupid slothful thing,

a foolish thing, who wants God.      

Immediately.  Groom who paces, for days,

the hall’s wide aisles.  But not

this nervousness.  It’s something huge, great

magnanimous.  It must be a joy.

Every virtue must be vigorous.  Paces.  

Plans.  Summons.  Helpmates arrive.  Do those

legumes grow through, from, the walls?

Apples, grapes, pears, cakes fill long

tables, shelves.  Shall I, a gnat

which dances in Thy ray, Dare

to be reverent?  Bride awaiting the

nuptial yes:  her eyes arrowed into

diamond points that pierce layer after

layer of air, sorrow, recompense.  Here

is all the holy frivolity of

those who have ceased to be

burdened with the seriousness of themselves,

finding that sphere of reverence, worship,  

         into one of laughter, dalliance.

Obsessed, rich with currencies of numbers,

shapes, and furniture.  Why six?  Why

trapezoid?  Why cupboard?  The world is

God’s language to us.  River’s relentless

tug.  Through the barn’s high roof,

a bolt strikes one edge of

their metal feeding trough.  Having recanted,

having been freed , he stamps his

foot.  It is only from the

light that streams constantly from heaven

that a tree can derive energy

to strike its roots deep into

soil.  Because it’s the mother of

numbers.  Because it makes a door.

Because it stores regrets.  Then mumbles

Galileo, Eppur si muove.  A miracle  --

having felt a slight tingling, one

live bossy at each line’s end;

ten dead others. in between.  That

tree is in fact rooted in

                      the sky.

Obsessed, hitched to horizontal rain slashing

across trestles, bridges   --  this one, this,

this.  There are only two things

that pierce the human heart. One

is beauty. The other is affliction.  

Velocity that bursts past future, then

reverses, then reverses, blurring present.  It

is only necessary to know that

love is a direction and not

a state of the soul.  Rain

that never falls but keeps slicing

    membrane after membrane.

Against, which does exhaust.  Consider witnesses.  

The wind is blowing hard and

hot; the air is yellow with

dust and sand.  That long slog

through unplowed snow, from town, up

and over the hill, home, to

pronounce that day’s misdeeds.  You could

not be born at a better

time than the present, when we

have lost everything.  She speaks so

confidently, humbly, and clearly  --  not a

one heeds her, at all.  When

the struggle is finished, it cannot

be possessed.  Those who witness for

                     the witnesses.

Oppressed, hitched to a spouse who

reckons curiously and frequently gestures toward

a window.  Look down there! On

the graves, in the moonlight, squats

a wild spectral figure.  An ape

it is! Hear how its howls

screech out into the sweet fragrance

of life!  On the whole, they

sit idly, though not unhappily.  For

at least once, time’s passing isn’t

tragedy.  There stands a hurdy-gurdy player;

with numb fingers he plays as

best he can.  Barefoot on ice,

he totters to and fro; his

little plate remains empty.  And there  --

past ice and graves  --  the sea,

a thousand wrecks on its bed.  

The spouse bestows a nuptial kiss

before saying that all beyond their

           window is beauty.