Shakespeare and Company, Paris.
Scarlet berries by the hundred break
quietly, violently, the green-black leaves—
like drops of Blood, our fathers used to say—
and late sun floods and reddens snow.
The world’s never got over the darkening
of your death—all nature dimmed and kneeled
at the slowing of your blood; earth plates
dislocated at the wrenching of your breath.
Birds hushed. But even now, your Cross
is everywhere: at the tops of wooden poles,
in the fall of bindweed in long grasses.
Each moment is inscribed with you—
unspeakable loss, desire. In prayer
I fall further into you: your gaze cave-deep,
a plummeting mine. Your love gallops
through the earth, through me—even now
it won’t turn back—; it lives again, it protects.
And like a child on his first hunt whose cheek
is brushed with the slaughtered fox’s tail,
all of creation has been blooded.
from "Dawn of this Hunger", 2021
Pre conversion poetry collections