In the bedlam
of bed-land,
happy as babies,
active as rabbits,
me sky-father
you earth-mother;

Inside Notre Dame is a black hole
where worshippers find a secret passageway
to grace
After the fiery birth, sodden mementos:
A cross,
A crown of thorns
Sculpted stone and paintings
The smell of charred faith

The raindrops dribble down the shopfront panes
while back behind the counter the barista drips
her own creation into earthenware cups.
He’s always liked the tables here, the way
they’re cut with thick pine tops and sturdy legs
two inches thick, like they were made to last

She hid all these years
aloof, afraid of the camera
knowing it would add ten pounds
to an already unmeasurable amount of mass
No wonder she kept hidden
in support groups with
bigfoot and the lochness

Left the wine importer’s tasting,
denied a restorative cup of joe,
I passed out on a Manhattan subway platform.
The ambulance drivers lugged me
me up to the street, where I signed and was
allowed to go. Before wine the arid years

And no, not the state, though the state
of the state is cause to fret,
no, O’Keeffe, I say, and we
are painting red poppies. We
are sliding crimson beyond the edges
of our canvases and we