Spring is his burden, and the night, a robe: livid

as poppies in a roadside wrap, facing the dying weather.

Spring is the furrow on his shoulder swathe,

between the neck and forearm.

 

Thus was the intimation right: a savior comes

out of Jerusalem, with pericardial thread

to make a heart’s claim: that history bears his thumb,

that saints soak up their suppers,

 

while the food, redolent on the table, aches for his hands.

And so he stops,

shuffling between a bramble and a gate, making as if

to leave, as if in earnest—

 

which means uncertainty rings true:

the crooked arm—come near—the branch that either

bleeds or flowers, the trickle fog.

Ah, how the stars gallop off one another,

 

betting whether the men might, might not, will, will not

quiver the lock, set plates and cups and saucers.

The day is nearly over.

The moon, struck briefly mute, takes heart—