Thunder and rain blot out the odd symphony
of airplanes and commerce trains –
this baptism not a redemption
but a mnemonic.
quaint conversations of the apocalypse over coffee,
weather patterns and the overall
normal feel of August in an age
when very little feels
Where are we now? This mess
they call middle age. This yard stick
shows up again and into the diatribe
of expectations, the list of boxes
needing ticked to prove
beyond the evidence
Renoir's “Woman with a Parasol in the Garden”
The “Ava Maria” in my ear
every thing swims in the currents
between Christ Crucified
and Christ Ascended
and I wonder
did Mary bury her son
before he died?
before the tree
before the Marriage at Cana
or was it then
when she first saw the world
pull and his failure
to avoid drowning?
That insistence to rush
a permanent prepubescent state
wanting to grow
up wanting to grow
a mustache wanting to grow
six inches wanting to grow
a man-sized prick only
to find all the hurry
waiting at the end
Every archway an echo of immortality.
Each piece of stained glass an eye of the divine.
Christ Crucified in the west / Christ Ascending in the east
and even the damned play a role: the mad
wander the streets and every brick to the face
is a call.
airplanes take flight
The sun will be later today
The air is thick with the coming storm.