My pagan hands, capable enough for this task of packing / away glass birds and painted wooden stars, / have again proven too clumsy to hang onto you. / I hear the whispers. No matter how gently / I remove the ornaments, showers of needles rush to the floor.
so I’ll sing what you want: counted like fathoms, / one knot at a time, ping and descend, ping and descend. / Till anchored to something barnacled. Musical. Onerous. Deep.
And if you say this something at a party / you might not be invited to another. / You could become isolated and embittered / and miss out on the treats.
. . . I led him straight to Jesus. He repeated the prayer after me and was saved. I filed the paperwork that afternoon.
I’m taking the light cure, the cure / by landscape, the cure by compound / eyes, forewing and hindwing, delicate / / antennae, tiny sensory hairs.
When Moses came down the mountain, / his face glowed, burned by holy fire. / I like to think of his dried tongue, / a piece of leather in his mouth.
Three does and a trailing buck / tiptoe through the campsite / traveling from one sweet nibble / to another. Blue columbine closes.
Congratulations to all of our nominees!
Oh Jeff, oh Sylivia, sweet Scorpios dead at 30, / I’m too old to gas myself or go swimming with my boots on
Psaltery & Lyre 