Monday, October 8, 2018

three acts

here we are:

April 27: God, you are a dense and tangled Lord—with many meetings, patient sufferings, learning that ears can open wider than you created them to and our tongues can actually lie still. You are built of small things: possibilities and fishing. Two oranges in the hands of men with whom we're incompatible.
You are a dense and gracious God—architect of an earth thick with meaning, of threads of persons, signposts and stop gaps. You offer an abundance, of laughter, sunlight, and offer. Even rain showers, quickly.

May 10th
It’s a grapefruit-colored world and we are glowing in it—
Skinny dark—
The boys smoking clove cigarettes,
The strong man with a gentle heart,
The police officer stopping in his car on his beat to watch the sun go down.

Eventually, the light falls behind the horizon and the dazzling,
sparkling fire on the lake resolves into a sleepy and subdued rose.
Night falls heavy, like the weight of a lover’s body on your lungs,
on the earth surrendering helplessly to the dark which follows sundown.

May 25
What God has joined together—
bonds of serendipity,
perichorectic glue of happenstance,
very much accident, but now necessity,
an exterior fortress miraculously mimicking
the congruent construction of one’s interior Gormenghast—

no man can tear asunder.
But rather, with a woman's careful touch,
gently dismantle
its painstaking, loving bricks.

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