How these things are forgotten

In “The Bowl of Roses” (full text below), the poet Rilke spends eight lines painting an ugly picture. And then: But now you know how these things are forgotten: for here before you stands a bowl full of roses… Thus begin sixty-four exquisite lines of instruction on how these things are forgotten. Eight lines of discarded gazes and pure hate […]

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Handmade (a poem about evidence)

I gaze at the heavens, searching for you, my God. (Ps. 123:1, ICEL Psalter) Handmade Barefoot in the dirt outside our tent in the dark, I bend back my head and open my heart to the sky. I hope to see heaven unravel, galaxies take up the thread then spin, then snap as larger, more practiced hands pull spacetime taut […]

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Pang (a poem about preaching)

Pang* What can sustain us through the Winter? Cans of green beans, I guess, creak-creak opened by weary pastors with their key-to-scripture can openers, limp calories forked onto our plates by servers like ourselves who’ve long since forgotten there’s any such thing as local produce— any such thing as tureens of slow-cooked winter stew mindfully prepared; fresh-baked bread, warm, broken, […]

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A rain poem

The Favor (for Cookie the neighbor cat) I said, “May I pet you? What an honor it would be.” You replied with some drawn-out “mmm” syllable of complaint as if it cost you money to arch your back up to meet my hand, as if you were not free to run back out into the rain.

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