Jesus. David Craig

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СКАЧАТЬ can do that while I’m biting this.”

      I suspect they are close to the angels:

      everybody gets one of each.

      And anyone that faithful gets the run

      of the land, which is nice recompense,

      our backyard, having been so small,

      our walks, so few.

      “Yes, yes, get off your ass. That’s right.

      How else will we get where we’re going?”

      Fr. Bob looks so old at 82

      And it’s happening to all of us.

      We get up each morning

      to see what the mirror’s been up to,

      move through the seas of our flesh—

      which ain’t too happy about it.

      Well, let that be.

      They are the world and all of its woes:

      neighbors, garbage men, late again.

      None of us ever expected this,

      the quiet rebellion, one cell at a time.

      (And rebels never know

      where they are going, do they?

      That’s part of the charm: trying

      to picture an end their new order

      can never create.)

      Here, though, I saw him on Facebook,

      in his rocking chair: birthday, snappy

      shirt beneath the sports coat,

      Madonna House north woods porch.

      Some people shouldn’t leave.

      It’s really that simple.

      There should be, instead, a field

      of statues: folks just like them,

      all life-sized, not on pedestals,

      but in the middle, moderate to high grass,

      flowers there, their favorite books, pencils—

      no sign telling you how to get there!

      I don’t want to go,

      but you can count me as a breath

      who came after.

      And if at times I feel like Pigpen

      at the University, my rising dust cloud,

      charming—because contained;

      as if I’ve become a kind of local color

      in the halls, a man who might be seen,

      talking to himself on a corner

      of the stage, next to Schroeder

      who is almost listening, at his piano;

      Lucy, finally dancing—at the climax

      of the Christmas show, I know too

      that I have somewhere to go

      when this night is over, the last

      trace of carolers, lingering

      in the animated air:

      to the crib, (Schroeder’s music

      again, now distant, soft) where dirt,

      airborne debris are not new or

      unexpected, where the ones who do

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