Four Reflections

1/

As you have mimeographed me 

with one hand tied behind your trespass

I have unlearned my love of snow

buried below the statue of St. Theresa 

the Little Flower beside the Church where

I triage the lifeline of a saint with shoulders

about to heft the burden of sanctity 

close to my thought of you a mask after all 

we have disowned together true but not yet tried. 

There is only so much morning to be crafted 

precisely as an avalanche disguising all branches 

blanketed by snow. That imposing look

of quietude just north of reality.

2/

Do you believe in stained glass as the salvation

of an unholy one given a lobotomy 

to shift her perspective toward unwanted 

adulthood? Whose voice did you expect 

in the confessional traipsing through 

history mined for conscience as a subset

of confidence alarming as reason for some

reason as weather alerts us to slow-go

through emotion withering beneath 

the lake top of whispered lacy snow. 

3/

Compos mentis prances across the threshold 

of the group home ladies where genius is smothered

in gravy to go with biscuits meant to coagulate

thereby southern them all and finagle a little drawl

to match the cindered driveway reminding that safety 

always a wafer would waive their right to silence 

like peaceful seeming nuns confined to a cloister

claustrophobic as un-tossed rice before

the undesirable church of the sanctimonious

version of a Christ declining to fit in. 

The sun bakes down on chastity 

the same as vineyards where largesse turns 

the way of lifeline with women purpling 

their young hands in the act of contributing 

to the local economy declare pure things just before 

their eyes recede to the backs of their heads 

as the bedsteads harbor a place for redheads.

4/

So many miniatures come true to me as I look across

at the dark wood metronome meant to keep me

in line. Often aligned, shall we say, with confinement

meant to shepherd my thoughts in the direction of 

easy recollection based on familiarity, that family

of fits and starts meant to define a tidy context for each

sprawling mind. Notice the caul protectorate sweetly

perched atop the tiny head that will contain 

immeasurably the sacrament of lore gathering beside

a friendly fire. A set piece of grammar passed 

from soldier to neighbor to slapdash new hires 

tumbling like gems to be refined then shown 

in Quartzsite, Arizona where the ramshackle 

bookstore once was stylized with full shelves.