every / consonant fleshed me alleluias, / furtively splintering my calico / shape
white-hulled, white-winged, spirit birds / becalmed in time
For the last morning, Anne climbs the mountain with her son and a knife, imitating Abraham. She cannot be outdone in doing right. She reads the Bible and she understands it.
There is nothing to be done / but kneel down, like this, and bear witness.
Hurts you, doesn’t it? Every last thing. / Those endings. Each page, a paper cut. / / Godx is nearer than you can imagine. / Godx is never close enough.
Can you put your hands around me like a muffler, season of grapes soaking in oak, season of crows, season of your husked voice whispering across the sheets, are you naked? Will you touch me first?
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.