Over the P.A.
this morning nothing but soft
rock, the people’s will.

I stay anyway.
Today in Bristol U.K.
my son’s first born’s first

Communion, so
I think of Mary in white
and her wee friends to-

gether under the
tent of God. Can I say that?
I have no idea.


St. Horace, pray for
me. Lord of the every-
day, the banal mess

of duties to self
and others, the poisoned air
of the Capitol.

A pagan Christian,
more pagan than Christian per-
haps, i’ve been true to

your pages since youth.
And you have enlightened me.
Your art of finesse

has guided me to
this last station. I parse
your lines as of old.


War rooted in love
of place—-this I get but re-
gret. Then there’s the ‘place

of separation’
shaped by the losses of things
and dear persons. This

is where I am now.
I take thought tying my shoes.
The hat of the day.

No form of knowledge,
tragic or otherwise, just
the excess of ‘is.’


Thank God this ‘transcen-
dental bluster’ is no match
for the ‘discipline

of finitude.’ Clouds,
rain, shadows, light, shadowy
light—-snares and sources

of the space we share.
Lucia helped Dante cross
to Purgatory.

There are poets who
mock the consolations of
finite thought. Not I.


Walking along this
fine Summer day I lose my-
self in the tree tops.

It takes forever
to get anywhere. I stay
up there with the birds.

I’ve read that love, in
giving itself, catches sight
of its death as it

surges beyond it-
self. Yes I’m walking under
what shines beyond me.


As I repeat the
Our Father each morning I
suddenly yawn, my

mouth stretches into
a big O—-it’s like the night
self, all bad breath and

shitty dreams, wants out.
I play along, rejoicing,
Good bye, hello Day.


As we walk the wall
all night as in Jones’ ‘The Wall,’
in memory of

‘The Dying Gaul,’ we
sleep at last. The enigma
of being survives

our betrayal. We
die in ignorance, walking
the wall, whispering

the tricks of our trade,
staying awake, remember-
ing wonderful things.