Loveliest, Lord,

is such abundance:
dust I gather without cease
from every corner, dust I sweep

into the yard. So many we’ve loved
have gone to sod, their hair
frozen into salt,

their fingernails chipped to points
of light. They’ve chiseled
their bones for furniture:

each line bleached
like balsa, minimal as art.
You said The light

after rain, how lovely
in the trees
: how the world
is loveliest made strange.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Uncommon Prayer.

2 Comments


  1. Wow. I love this poem. I don’t understand the balsa, but all the rest — you know when you go to pick out your favorite line or two, and you end up highlighting the whole poem? Like that.

    Reply

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