More poems.


The mountains wait for sin

A Sun rises in the east
bearing fruit and wine and glory.
The mountains scoff,
Sun, you terrible pest.

The days come and go.
The rivers flow.
The grasses bring flowers.
The village brings towers.

The mountains cry,
Sun, you terrible pest!
You bring these fools–
This sordid flesh and endless flora.

The Sun is patient,
The Sun is kind.
And when the mountains sleep,
A dawn breaks.

And the Sun also riseth.


My heart
and blisters
My head
and whispers

The blood and thought of wolf and lamb
In holy mountains, spread like dawn
Amongst the grey of fallen flesh

My heart
and grace
My head
and space


No words to write
No darkness to light

No death to mourn
No lover to scorn

No snake and no dove
No hate and no love

No sound and no fury
No judge and no jury

No pity and no spite
No may and no might