DiaBLOGue

The sun this morning 
through a peanutbutter jar of 
frozen lemonade 

There has been one and one only perfect moment 
when the awful machinations of chance completely and smoothly meshed,
            each part moving in single precision, 
when the intricate multiplicity of myriad circumstance, 

She eased herself into the bed beside him, 
His farmer’s heavy sleep 
Was lighter now with dawning near. 
At the creak of springs he stirred 

The men of Huntsville proper 
Found her there— 
Halfway down the Glacier’s eastward face 
With three thick feet of glacial glass 

The common cripple to the south of Palmyra 
Dreamed God the Father, the Savior Son, 
And, though clerical tradition predetermine his doom,
Can never, never, never 
Search Kidd’s treasure again. 

These are fragments of myself 
playing at being fragments of myself 
and they will become fragmented themselves 
as like me they become themselves. 

            I have made endeavour to serve thee, Lord, 
and yet thy servant— 
this thy child—
is apprehensive at thy majesty. 

my decision 
to escape my own sure shivaree 
came to me 
as we herded two of my 

                Reading is one thing—and metaphors 
                imitate life in literature only. 
Yet when birds flapped a curtain of chatter over a sky-scrap

Leaves of a different cut, 
perceiving other winds, 
the children blow in spring 
and laugh aloud like children.