Poetry

We made a dance of all the ways

we’d hurt our bodies.

     His noiseless blooming in the callous earth. I followed
a dry-bone branch, spiderweb-cracked, off the Running Turkey. 

I chose it,
went willingly,
put in

the time
with the diocese
and my sponsor,

—a spectrum, an immeasurable gradient, during and after which

the places where you were can be tracked over a sprawling landscape

Be careful—I’m filled with glass.

I wanted to play Gabriel in a tinsel crown,
but was cast as the Little Drummer. I hoped
to carry the crucifix, to ferry the chalice
down the long corridor of St. Aloysius

The forest opens wide then closes once

After curbing what hasn’t sold

I sit across the street and spy on people

taking what this morning was mine.

The cold is a knife-slice on the skin.