Opening King David. Brad Davis

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      to check. In my low beams, her head high,

      those giant black eyes blinked slowly, confused.

      Difficult this morning to concentrate

      on the psalmic text—Happy is the man

      whose delight is in the law of the Lord—

      which feels irrelevant to everything

      that has been flailing at my heart these days.

      But how else to learn an answer for how

      the tyranny of bleak appearances

      drains the soul of all will to persevere?

      He is a tree whose leaf does not wither.

      I am like chaff that the wind blows away.

      Be warned, you rulers of the earth.

      Psalm 2:10

      Hard Times

      We wait out this blizzard at the far edge

      of whatever suffering it may pile on

      the less well kept. Easy for us to love

      the bride-white beauty through our air-tight

      windows or even brave the elements

      one well-plowed mile for two-dollar coffees

      at our favorite Zagat-rated café.

      Never without a log for the fireplace,

      we are thankful for our comforts, though we

      sign contracts for these benefits insured

      by policies that conspire against all

      for whom there remains no room in the inn.

      Easy to feel the innkeeper’s bind

      with the wind chill pushing twenty below.

      May your blessing be on your people.

      Psalm 3:8

      Among the Living

      We lie down and sleep; and we wake again.

      Like dying, or the way I wish it were.

      The Lord gives to his beloved sleep, but

      few care. Those who do I tend to welcome

      as I do your eyes morning to morning.

      Evening to evening, the pace picking up,

      we lie down and sleep; we wake again,

      our field of vision—blink—stroboscopic.

      Blink again—we are surrounded by foes

      who loathe our sloth, regard my love

      to laze beside you of no benefit

      to the commonweal. Which is true. So I

      may quit my day job. What will they say then?

      We lie down and sleep—and wake again.

      How long, O men, will you love delusions and seek false Gods?

      Psalm 4:2

      Against Solipsism

      Is it unacceptably romantic

      to say aloud that urban poetry

      reads as if it needs to get out more, needs

      more than a holiday in the country

      to curb its solipsistic tendencies?

      Most of the universe is—pause—nature.

      Imagine hip-hop referring to plums

      or an Ashbery knockoff ascending

      into the euphony of coherence.

      What makes sense of anything that happens

      behind locked doors is that which has no need

      of a door, real or metaphorical,

      to upset one’s cognitive apple cart.

      Say, the slightest breeze beneath a doorjamb.

      Their throat is an open grave.

      Psalm 5:9

      Moto at Broadway and Hewes

      Brooklyn, NYC

      Whatsoever is vulgar—sub-

      standard housing, most packaged goods,

      souls lacking virtuous aspiration,

      anything ignoble or half-assed—will,

      when the splendor appears, be swept up,

      collected like so much rubbish, burned.

      Imagine earth’s spirit clarified,

      the good body set free from corruption.

      Until then, there is music

      for voice and double bass in cafés

      where—think temples of refuge—

      fugitive hope may find sanctuary.

      When the splendor appears, who

      will not see it? Whose knee will not bow?

      My bones are in agony.

      Psalm 6:2

      Desire

      I want to live

      where no one lies

      to the suffering child who asks

      How long?

      Deceive a child

      and she dies a little—

      a little death, a little death

      then gone.

      He who is pregnant with evil gives birth to disillusionment.

      Psalm 7:14

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