Lost Lamentation
I’m on fire and swimming in a pool.
I’m swimming underwater and still on fire.
But nothing burns
but me
Maybe I’ll get lucky with the clouds
Skywriting
Can I make out of words
Can I make out of words
what I wanted to get on film?
Ten seconds of the freight train
rumbling by?
And a boy biking,
his pedal striking
the kickstand loose
and useless?
Pater de Bruin
Easter flowers
With a proper hoe / The harrowing
Won’t there be endless
progress into the past
and won’t we find there
everyone no one
ever heard of,
and won’t they stand
and flourish finally,
just as they’d hoped?
Holy Saturday
I, Barabbas
Christ to death
while the guilty man goes free.
And a white-hot freedom it is –
one better left alone.
Better to putter behind
shades and abstractions,
to sleep the many sleeps
that bring us our own.
