Tinier than a man can see

I had thought light and then dust

was my enemy, but then I saw the mold,

spores of it skipping from the window to the shelf

to the tops of the books below.

These freckles I bleached.

Till I dreamt of them, swirling.

Not for fear but love did I dream –

for he in whom the cancer had spread –

of microbursts and a metastatic sky.


We used to speak of the thingification

of grace, which was a bad thing,

but now I think love,

to use its proper name,

is indeed a stuff,

weightless and invisible,

we can get our hands on.

It’s from where everything always is

and is flowing,

if we let it,

through us to all the rest

to give us and it


Better this theology,

wrong as it may be,

than me and my will

manning up

to obey the law repeatedly.

Blue-eyed Wayne

I guess the idea there

was that if I met a student,

a seminarian,

of the Princeton Theological Seminary,

I’d see you could be that

and whatever came after

(a minister, a priest?)

and still have sex

or get married or both

and maybe she was suggesting

one of those for us,

though I doubt it now.

Wayne was friendly enough.

I’d like to know what I asked him,

since I didn’t know why

I was meeting him.

Mostly I was just in love with a girl –

and tennis and gin,

and a quarter-cut lime mixed with

theological ideas.

How certain loves could have gone

There was the one of castaways on the island,

how he’d have not have had her

except for that island and his being the

alternative to no one –

and of his having been dumped by her

after “love” followed by rescue.

Then, too, there was the older man of money,

once handsome but now well past his prime –

and her,

and what won’t money buy if you’ve enough of it?

Well, except for actual love.

And so now I’m wondering about that kind,

and how love has gone,

and what that has to do

with what I’ve to say here.