DiaBLOGue

He sought to grow rare orchids up bright air 
On theory they were closer to the sun. 
Such trailing gardens of the blue compare 
To virga with refractions overrun. 

He himself is the present he is wrapping 
under the starlit branches of the sky. 
This, of course, is a truth that needs no trapping: 
it is apparent to the naked eye. 

The righteous pagans cursed our easy grace.
We shrugged and smiled and knew salvation well.
Looking our wounded savior in the face,
the righteous pagans cursed our easy grace.

He read us stories from a book as blank
as a white sky. (He couldn’t read the sky,
however.) Words marched forward, rank on rank:
he read us stories from a book as blank

To wake up remembering his empty bed 
is serene as touching the walls of a cave, 
is to believe you can keep that Friday in mind 
and heft Galilee on your back. 

Walking up to the coffin 
(a little larger than a viola case), 
I see his jacket lying stiff 
as baseball card gum. 

At the OTB, men “cross” themselves 
as their horses race across TV screens 
double-checking their stubs 
before dropping them on the floor 

The ground is an absolute, the air lets 
you down. The way you leave your bronc sustains 
a conspiracy of violence you embrace 
the way you mean an oath. Forever. 

Al had tethered me to the class of 53, 
webbed me to classmates before the web, 
invited me back every ten years.