I
This morning my eyes are deeplocked
on a whiteout sky. Prayer leaks like water
from my cupped hands—I hope
not to be afraid.
This morning God is obvious
the snow is falling soft
over a long row of poplars
in parallel punctuation,
To whom shall you go?
By noon I give up hope.
We are all dying to do the right thing.
II
We met at a long table and they
asked what I brought to the table.
I’ve seen a lot of death, I said.
And that’s something, I suppose.
I remember there was a low swung moon
in August, swear to God bigger
than my face and red as blood.
It was slowly losing ground to
the deep stubble of a cornfield.
I stopped the car, a blue heron was
bent, listening.
III
One morning God spoke to me
and said
and said
And that’s something, I suppose.
When I blow out the wick of a candle
smoke curls into a language.
Now the snow rises above the window seam
the poplars are bowed, a whisper
Whose mouth do you feed?
Who do you love?
And the world is quiet for a long time.