Like Taxes: Marching Through Gaul (PDF)

New York in Broad Daylight (p. 4)

(for Jack)

In sunny Central Park

I see Him,

a Child flying a Japanese kite,

the kite itself. Pot-bellied,

He plays a hot corner.

He waves beneath His chin,

jogs uphill with the horde and I feel

all the grass growing inside me.

Great grey buildings

become mice. Blind, they crawl, new-born,

squeaking. Paintings along the sidewalk

learn French, drink coffee.

A Julliard student plays viola

to my violin:

the careful crunch of cheesecake,

Village cafe. And later,

all the small people inside me bop,

the Flintstone theme on sax, Washington Park.

I see Him, with brush and can,

face streaked,

as billowing orange letters,

noisy cars, zip past.

Young Monk (Denver)

Wine, water,

like the red patch, yellow body of a peach

in a bowl, sit

behind layers of fine lacquer,

two millenia of pews

in the bowels of the dark Catholic

Church.

And on the cross up front,

on the wall behind the gold,

the altar, I feel the body, the wound,

in new water, draw,

feel the corresponding motion

without noise.

Mass and, after, outside,

capped clothespins hold the flapping

bedsheet canvass, day: yellow sun head

tucked in a coat of trailing,

above-the-trees, wrap-around blue.

Garrulous birds and the sweet

smell of pine needle.

A calling. Fine as my stride,

elevated as the caps of waves,

spray and shingle, celibate air.

This life for Life

and a walk through the trees.

...the praise which is

a thousand mosquitoes, their silver droppings

to the river, the ripples,

is assembly lines on the banks under trees,

the clanking, seeds twirling down,

small dimes shining in the mud, or the

faces of thin, French nuns in procession,

fortune tellers with the Infant of Prague

in store front windows,

it is the clear apprehension

of a rotten, flagging fencepost,

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