Monthly Archives: February 2019
I crack the mind its knuckles
To pop the day it plans
Dutch triangles
Sunday morning
The beginning of the end
It started with salt.
The doctor said,
If you would
not be dead,
eat no more.
So he didn’t.
Not even on apples.
From not which came,
but still it came,
the fall. He fell,
not dead, but
hit his head –
on the tub, she
found him on the floor.
Alive is alive
till truly it’s dead
(though to God, you see,
no one is dead).
The ambulance came.
From church he was led
to his just end of salt
on apples evermore.
In loving memory of John Peter Sondgerath (D. 19 April 1979)
Crossing
Preview of the eschaton
I perked up, for you had arrived.
Or had you? As I listened, you
stepped back and faded
into that which I thought I had heard.