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At sixteen, I’m listening 
to the sounds of a fractured frame house: 

my older sister sobbing 
over hard news 
about a religious leader she has long admired,

on the wall behind the choir chairs, 
and the ladies 
brushing the warm chapel air 
with round cardboard fans were there, 

Years later, at a high school reunion, 
a girl gave a tribute to a classmate who had died. 
Not knowing another way to end 
her remarks, she did so 
“in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” 

Curious it is 
the simple means employed by God 
to bring great things to pass. 

It’s coming on fall, 
time for a change, whispers the wind through the leaves. 

My holes remained whole 
at your arrival. 
I stood there, watching, impotent— 
cut the purple Nike rope, 

You may not appreciate this but 
I once ran into Hugh Nibley— 
at Smith’s market in Provo— 
you know, the guy who wrote all 

We can’t say what Glaucus knew 
From watching storms crush and reshape 
The surge, what voices he’d heard 
When the tide swelled onto the beach,