Latte

In the dusty light
of late September
two flies copulate
on the cup’s broad rim
twitching in the foam
of Aphrodite
stranded by the tide.

(Borderlands #30 (spring/summer 2008).

The Well

Wait, and I will draw you water
steeped beneath these stones
crude yet tight as ancient law;

blue ice cracked under cold sun,
dew slid from petals of clover,
water whose dark silence holds

the dream song of mourning doves
and the crow’s sharp caw;
sweet scent of thunder

sounded by a pebble drop;
the life of that first garden
rising once again, deep

with colors fusing in light,
a clarity enfolding
every name writ in water.

Drink, if you must,
from the easy and the many,
the way dogs lap at puddles;

or wait, if you can,
for water astoundingly cool,
a stone chill that baffles

the tongue, confounds the brain
like a great bell rung
in undulations beyond the ear,

the very tremors of our being.
Drink, now, for here it is,
freshly drawn from Jacob’s well.


(Christianity and the Arts, Winter 2000.)