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The light at four
She’s left the inner garden.
Here, though, she slows, her smile
recalling old reversals and raising briefly the prospect of shade’s
shedding its clothes, and being morning again,
naked in the flowers.
Morning trees

Little bird, beating heart
Door ajar, near
is love’s fear
in safety’s cage
Abraham Theophany

Detail, Abraham with Three Angels by Pieter Lastman, 1623. Hermitage Amsterdam.
Ladders

I look at people and like what I see
They are chatting. He pats him
on the shoulder. He is cold.
They walk away.
She is sitting scrolling. No
one bothers her and she does not
bother them. She has many,
family and friends, who love her.
And she loves them.
People are shopping, not stealing.
They want to look good and want
something nice for their children.
They are not blowing up buildings
or running cars into people.
They are just trying their best
as almost everyone always does,
as here the frost melts
and sheep eat grass
in a place where it already has.
Teleportation

Laudate
The other way than backward
proceeds surely
once I’ve turned
from dusk to Sanctus
and her silent
petulant flowers
Lit from within
