Jesus. David Craig

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СКАЧАТЬ of green daffodils, trees,

      their darkened daylight dress.

      His smile does not fill these skies;

      our lives, a sigh: a wait

      for what we would be.

      And so this is where we work—

      a shop for shavings or bits of stone;

      an apron, all the little Geppettos,

      Gaudier-Brzeskas; each, every day,

      to his scappy corner, finding

      drama, inventing epics.

      Days need filling—stars invent the sky.

      At least that’s what we tell ourselves:

      rose petals covering the sidewalk,

      a heart taking its sleeve.

      And what else but resurrection

      could give this? We speak words

      that own us, dance to the we they make.

      We are like torn flags high above

      this heading, our do-wops, the tongues

      of angels and flying fish.

      Come into the shop sometime.

      We will find the beer.

      The dog howls when Linda plays piano

      gets nocturnal—lunar white depressions,

      vast, dim seas. He feels the ocean in dark leaves,

      laments for us all—a world that eats its own.

      It’s his burden, to bring what his masters can’t:

      life, a gut-bag on the forest floor, downy drifts

      rocking tall limbs, reasons for distress.

      I wouldn’t want to live there, greased,

      though perhaps we do so when we enter the world

      of basement laundry. Or maybe we go through

      our rounds to keep us from its cold fissures.

      My daughter has a burden for the small

      of this world, for women. That is why we, parents,

      re-spell “grass”: ferning colors, building.

      There is no security on this frozen dirt, except

      in the fact that God brings the world to bear

      so heavily upon us—that we, reduced to who

      we are, might leave a print, worthy

      of the dust and forms we find.

      Our other dog died, which was harder for him

      though I suppose it’s always like that—

      the going one making all the noise.

      I’m sure I’ll be hac-hec-hooing right along

      with Muriel Spark, everyone else

      when it’s my turn to brave

      that cold amusement park.

      I wish my ride could be like a saint’s,

      but it hasn’t been. And if there’s anybody

      doing that down at the college, you

      wouldn’t know it—which makes sense,

      given the noisiness of my coaster car—

      quieting the world’s not an option.

      No, I’m afraid most of us are like the many,

      bumbling our way through, too much

      of the holy water finding floor

      as we enter or leave the church.

      We are the great (spiritually) unwashed,

      the mass who, we hope, will get into heaven

      at a group-rate, kind of like Walmart shoppers.

      “Yes, yes,” Peter a little bored, waving us

      through with our small busy flags.

      They’ll be a place for us at the bar, too,

      in heaven, though many will leave

      (not judging of course as we enter).

      It will just be so many, too many new

      dart games, too much loud talk for them,

      too much carrying on—though we might

      see Francis somewhere, quiet, grinning.

      Everyone except Dodger fans.

      (I have no idea why that should be.)

      We’d all get quiet for the sunset though,

      the huge heavenly ship going down.

      Then it will be new stars and night birds,

      tennis over to the right, under leaves, lights.

      The whole place will be like a cathedral

      with posters on the trees.

      I still look for him beneath the table

      laying there, spent, when I tuck:

      the little general who passed

      like bright sails among us.

      Dogs are little guardians, aren’t they,

      signposts, doing their job,

      telling you about selflessness again?

      Of course they are only dogs,

      but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?

      (“Here, friend, the answer’s by the biscuit.”)

      We can use all the help we can get.

      That’s СКАЧАТЬ