Son Sutra
Boy of stars, sun inside, fallen without a sob,
Rest against me, bending sunflower, still the flutter,
Ease your head, son, it’s late,
No way to before, your skull shadowed and sunlit, turn,
Deepen us with your shadow words, muted son, say dad
After me, your scattered sun petals, our sutra
Nightfall, I gather you, my bruised son.
*
At the Park
an invisible rope pulls
back his head
and a hand rips
the blue sheet of sky.
At the edge of his
world, I make out
his torn voice:
Papa, my eyes
open
the rest of me
closed.
*
Shephard Psalm
Prepare for enemies:
Warm your feet
from dirt’s grave-cold, uncover your voice,
the words flying out like leaves
into gusts of their rage.
Dissolve the fist’s stain on your face
and the rope
around your wrists.
Lie down
in the beaten dark,
near pastures green and
unbruised,
the salt raining down
your blood,
restoring
dusk’s ragged edge
to smooth plains of
terracotta slate,
your gold-straw hair
igniting the wick
of pink dawn.
You shall not want.
*
