What would a Savior make of our half-thoughts?
He is busy with the skirt of rain,
the bric-a-brac lands birds flee from,
the zoning sun. Before redeeming any more
of the landscape, He would know its true color,
and who sees it. Savior? Means taste.
Surely He would know
we have capitulated
in every way.
Even the best blood
pools in beds
under an equator of slaughter.
God makes only geniuses,
but our idiom grows crooked, its marrow
a broken skeleton's. Yet
till the air becomes air again,
there is always something that can be learned,
even in the awful grates of death.
If the salt
hath lost its savour
wherewith
shall it be salted?
Where is the so-called fat of the land?
The thick branches respond
to rain
in jeweled form.
Hence, leaves.
Hence, bees keen on the blossom,
blackbirds drawn from the life.
Round May
the land gorges,
while the crow is always starved.
Earth totters,
lifts up its horn to the heavens,
while its inhabitants grow yet
rich and poor together
and speak with insolent neck.