tomorrow

church bells

a festival

a woman

singing

soul and flesh in

a single ecstasy

tapping at the window

a curious bird or

a friend coming by or

a branch in the wind?

stretched legs

from hips to toes

a woman

letting

go of tension

a turning ceiling fan

sweetness in the air   

a gift for us or

for some other species or

for sweetness itself?

a new coin tossed

shining in her hand

and dare she look

at fate in her palm?

at unplucked berries  

warm in the sun?

Jesus was a cracker

Jesus was a cracker 

we washed down 

with wine

was Jesus

Mary was a mumble

a bracelet

a sign

was Mary 

God was nothing 

in particular

a smoke bomb, 

a brass cup,

stained glass,

a widow working the organ 

working the organ

From all of which 

I assembled a cosmology

in a basement crèche

while God turned away from me

Jesus was a cracker 

we washed down 

with wine

was Jesus

Mary was a mumble

a bracelet

a sign
was Mary

burned over

[[ have you heard of the "burned-over district" of NY State? This song started with that in general and the Millerites in more particular. ]].

Jesus is going to stroll

right up our block,

step up right there, next Tuesday.

Jesus is going to roll

up to the clock 

in our town square, next Tuesday.

Jesus is coming on Tuesday, 

next Tuesday.

to burn the place down to the dirt

Jesus is coming on Tuesday, 

next Tuesday.

and I sure hope it doesn't hurt.

Sell the house.

Sell the cow.

Sell the horses.

Do it now.

Jesus is coming on Tuesday, 

next Tuesday.

to burn the place down to the dirt

burning churches

[[ I have stopped to watch big churches burn -- it's very dramatic -- but words do double duty here. What is most important in a church -- what they carry out of a burning church -- is the art and the records. Churches are the local warehouses of time and beauty. Something like that. ]]

I have stopped
to watch
your churches burn.

What you carry
out from churches
filled with fire

is art -- religion
of religions,
and the only true --

a trap for frisson,
how it feels
along our nerves,

art and history,
a trace of time
in curled ink,

the word on page,
a jar of you
in vinegar

to evidence that
you were born,
your mother born,

and time sleeps
in a pile
of local stone.

this church

This church is stone,

so full of empty

that to kneel

is hard as bone.

Inside this church 

a cold air rushes
through from arch

to arch to arch.

This church was built

of weight and stone,

of stone on stone

and space between.

Now all the weight

is lifted off.
Watch each stone shift
and float away.

bang on

Bang on metal

Loud as cannon

Sunday morning

Without warning

Bang on

Bang on

Jesus Christ

Rattling doors

Sunday morning

Without warning

Bang on

Bang on