I put my faith in algebra. / And Wallace Stevens, of course, / / his quantum heresies, his dominion, / coffee and oranges
Inside, two pews made / from wooden pallets / the sea coughed up, an altar / of bleached driftwood
my wife, / / rising from a dive, turning to me, / gathered the rare light and wore it.
Lemon sunlight stripes the hospital bed, / and morning chases off the lulling blues
Once there was a language of women. Once / there was script for / “world” and “womb” outside / the characters of men.
It’s only late in life you understand / sacrifice: the bees died trying / to save the blooming world.
You gathered lions around you, on your head and in your gilt clay heart. Like a grubby child collecting iridescent scarab shells in Jericho.
