O Holy Spiritwe did not knowhow strong you arein our dull ageuntil we saw your colorsapple reds, transparent greens,blue of truth,laid upon the figurinesdeep embossed in halos,Gospel figures,hooded, cloaked,upon the roador standing by a city doorwaydrawn in heavy blackened brushagainst the Holy skie

“What men truly want is peace,”Says the last one true prophet.Peace feels so like submissionGood prophets can fool most men.For the rest, there’s the hammer,Followed by a gentle tongue To sweet-talk the wounds. A tongueWorks wonders keeping the peace,But wonder-workers keep ha

For him the truth is a flavor,a pulse made of nutriment,a living mountain of breath.Even pinched betweenthe fingers and released, he springsto perfect absence, beyond punishment,a celebrant of undetectable freedom.Cinder-speck, a vibrant fiend of punctuation,no bigger than a typesetter’ss

You must sit down and taste. —George Herbert That morning, Gilmore and Mary Francessacrificed a lamb for us. Gilmore said,With a cool hand,I slit the throat,the lamb did not suffer. We gathered around the lambskin-draped picnic table. Direct from the open fire,we ate everyt

Rooster, rooster,golden coxcombwait not for the sun to rise.Crow for Peterthrough the darkness,pity him who thrice denied. Rooster, rooster,Peter’s broken.Darkness shrouds all earthly scapes.Time to crow, foreven Petermay just yet be saved by shame.

I’d been thinking of the veinsOn the back of the hand: A photo I’d seen of a womanClutching her baby in Darfur;An old man, eyes closed,Palming his forehead on the metro;Ignatius in the painting claspingA crucifix to his chest—the veins blue,Raised like mole-runs In soft e