Long day. The good rain falls. Lay down
your brittle bones, your worn out heart, your cancer.
Breathe in. Breathe out...out. Out
somewhere between recollection and your dream
of a landscape of flowers that never fade,
you close the gate. Another gate opens.
Long day. The good fire burns. Lie down.
Remember that your robe is a robe of clay.
You have become a murmuring among
an ecomomy of bones, scattered prayers,
benches, a winding path, a concrete angel.
Long day. The good wind blows. Lie down
alone to know the busy earth and Yahweh
will hold you precious for your lacy sherds.
GEORGIA REVIEW, (Summer, 2000)
