Would God but bend my will to God
The writer devolves
Scratchings
Clawings
The bore
Death goes on and on,
blabbing about his adventures
And yet
How a tragedy unfolds
Like light off a river
through the beams of a bridge
Coastal sunset
Till all that’s left is the salt
I imagine Purgatory to be
a purification not by fire, but by tears –
that being the proper response
to all our failures to love
Lettuce and bread
And rockets and bombs
Stirring up the clouds
Jesus waits and wonders
Oh why, human heart
do you sleep on the floor?
Utrecht Journal 