The night is my eyelids; the sun seared it with the moon.
I leave my roof in a dream of Christ, my Fountain.

Why disturb my devotion with Messiah’s return?
There are so many spirits; there is so much dry lightning.

The crying child – give her the wine we hid in the box spring.
Reivers seize our cattle in fall, but they leave the dark grapes.

The slow moon condenses like a raisin, like the shriveling
Earth.  The guards lift their eyes at my song in the white fields.

The radio died, and we named the stars again.
We bottle our news and wait for the ocean.

Nothing grows to term, and His cup is never full.
Since we spilt the ice, the stiff dregs slit their wrists for rain.

Can I love Christ?  Here?  The monks say I can.
I glean the white fields for a vision of Him.

We are cut to pieces.  When they bury us,
will our children grow whole in the dark, like potatoes?

He comes! they shout. His voice is like many waters!
The sun winks, I say, and turns mirages into shadows.

You are a lover and no prophet, Haize.  Had you sung
back in Al Gore’s day, your words would have blown as dry as his.



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