The Virgin Snow

Naïve white drops fall from

The sky and from the two lakes

In Seneca territory

Near the border where

You were born.

Every kind of pilgrim

Crosses that border

Where you watch white

Unmanifest desire

Untouched, original

And new, like pure thought

Become substance in the

Cold, thin air.

You walk on icy roads

Past Methodist steeples

Frozen waterfalls and dusted

Tree branches, to a house

Built before photography

A maple-stained corner home

Near the creek that flows north

And empties into the Niagar

A home that people stop to

Gaze at.

           

You continue walking up a

Dozen or so creaky wooden

Steps to a bedroom where lay

A woman who will no longer

Even kiss you.

Out of the

Darkness are reflections of

Crystalline blue eyes and

Skin as white as the blanketed

Sidewalk.

A cool rhythm is in the voice

And a cold blue light emanates

From the TV screen as snow

Sticks desperately to the window

To then freeze or

Evaporate.

“This is not the virginity

I had sought,” you think.

“But it is pretty.”



9 Autumns Past

the young blind
woman asked me
to take her along
winspear avenue
to the store
on the
corner.

she had the
warmest
hands.

The Transmigration of Souls

suzanne and i stopped in
the bar where she met
her first husband, stopped
into the blue & gold
place as we used to call it
in the east village;
she'd gone there with
him, too.

"i told him," suzanne said
at the bar, "if we don't
work through this, we're
going to have to do it
all over again, in another
life, i mean, do you really

want to be
married to
me
again?"

To the Brown-Eyed Belle of Saint Mark

damn
am i going
to hate it
when

you turn
those dark
eyes
on

me.

To Wonder

to wonder if you've
loved enough
is part of
the loving.

to ask 'was my
heart really brok-
en or was i
just afraid to
be alone?'

is part of the
heartbreak.

while it's true
the heart can
hold only so
many tears.

don't wonder
as to its
depth.

Fruit of Thy Womb

The sages say that

Mary means ‘the sea’

As in mar, marine and

Marina but it’s not

Your name I think of

As I watch your chest

Rise

And lift, then recede

Like the rapturous

Tide.

I don't know what it is

About you that is

                                                                 

Liquid exactly

But if you put it

In a cup and

Place

It on the

Table in front of

Us, I will

Drink it

Until

I, too, am

Full of

       Grace.

                                                                         

You Love (Song of Praise)

 

You love your own

breasts as nearly all

women do; you’re

proud of their soul

power and of the

gifts they bring to you.

Because you so love

your breasts, I love

them, too.

Or maybe there are other reasons.

You love your own

home as nearly all of us

do, you’re proud of the

antique chairs, the

gilded portraits and walls,

the flowers in the blue glass vases.

Because you so love

your home, I love

it, too.

Or maybe there are other reasons.

You love the world as

only you can; you’re

proud of your creations

in their individual

splendor.

Because you so loved

the world, I love it

too.

Or maybe there are other reasons.

Other reasons.

Under the Peace Bridge (Song of the Atonement)

Does judgment come in white and black?

Morality’s so inexact

Look no further than at sex

Love is simple, we’re complex

When in flight the skylark sings

Spirit kisses mundane things.

The garden green is but a mirror

Reflecting starry heaven’s glare

Golden apples of the sun

Lie in the bowl when work is done

An iron sword firm in the right

Still separates the day from night

All mysteries of life and death

Reveal themselves with every breath

The harp was once Diana’s bow

The stringed guitar has six arrows

But ghost electric unchecked can

Adulterate the age of man.

The anchorperson’s rehearsed lies

Pollute the earth, the moon and skies

The teacher teaching without art

Violates the child’s heart

Lovers stopping for the phone

Usher in a world of stone

Night is falling, who is calling?

Someone you can call your own?

One must atone

To purify the intellect

And be gazed on by

Melchizidek.

In my hometown grow many trees

One of these, the Tree of Peace

Unites the tribes of Handsome Lake

Who never feared the uncoiled snake

‘Don’t tread on me, get thee behind’

He said to tame the insane mind

The massive tree, its fruits and leaves

Gave food and shade to northbound slaves

Near the tree, a bridge was built

By the sons of old Steelkilt

Who hailed from lands of rock and snow

And the island, Manitou

Gallant horsemen, beautiful women

When twilight fell, shared wild visions

But what they saw in dreams at night

We must perceive now in daylight.

Moloch prophets, listen well

Your minds have made a Milton’s hell

Age alone can’t bestow truth

When blood runs hot like callow youth

For at the core of nation’s pride

Are conquest, slav’ry, genocide

Renounce the demagoguery

Behold the source of poetry

Forgive and call the muses home

The bridge where light and darkness meet

When crossed does something torn complete

Yet writ large on its cornerstone:

One must

Atone.