Opening King David. Brad Davis

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СКАЧАТЬ loves Roger, so when the preacher

      went on for twenty minutes about sheep,

      the Shepherd, and the sheep pen, Arlys winced

      and prayed for Roger. Prayed he would not want

      to walk home alone, cancel their outing

      to the state park, return to the city.

      Arlys loves God, believes Roger’s doubting

      could be turned to confidence overnight.

      If only he would hear the Shepherd’s voice,

      she would sleep beside him in the fold, lack

      nothing, anoint his head with oil.

      Lift up your heads, O you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors.

      Psalm 24:7

      Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge

      Easter morning

      Walt Whitman’s Brooklyn behind us, we are walking

      to Manhattan and a late brunch in Chinatown:

      steamed dumplings, rooster sauce, pan-fried sesame bread,

      plastic bowls of spicy mushroom soup, oolong tea.

      We walk above traffic, the river; beside the JMZ line,

      share elevated pedestrian lanes with cyclists, Hassidim,

      speed walkers, hippies, Latinos, arty types in all black.

      You are here—a mantra learned from maps on kiosks

      in suburban malls—plays in my head, and softly (to myself)

      I offer up an Easter hymn under Jerusalem-blue skies.

      All families will bow before him; he is the King of glory.

      To the south, a thin column of cloud rises like altar smoke.

      The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof.

      In this light, even the jaded skyline stands transfigured.

      He instructs sinners in his ways.

      Psalm 25:8

      With Bill At Bafflin Sanctuary

      We walk woodland trails cut by volunteers

      and kid about total depravity

      which, pertaining to salvation, translates

      even “the greatest geniuses are blind-

      er than moles.” The path is soft underfoot,

      the laurel late-blooming. Beside a pond

      he unpacks his camera. Can a snapshot

      reveal the affliction of our nature?

      I take refuge under translucent leaves,

      leave him to his patient compositions.

      But what’s the point? His kind wife is dying,

      and he has left the house to take pictures

      of ferns uncurling. Do I hear myself?

      Are they not—forgive me—portraits of her?

      Test me, O Lord, and try me.

      Psalm 26:2

      General Confession

      In each promise of faithfulness, traces

      of countless betrayals: averted eyes,

      a voice’s tremor. Like the air we breathe

      or the glances we exchange with strangers

      on strobe-lit dance floors, we test positive

      for impurity. But do not expect

      a list of lurid details in these lines;

      I am neither Catholic nor Lowell nor Plath.

      I am merely—how does the song go—“prone

      to wander.” So have we any chance,

      this side of heaven, at a constant heart?

      Or even modest progress toward that end?

      The word’s out: love covers a multitude

      of sins. Is this the best we can hope for?

      I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

      Psalm 27:13

      To Self-Pity

      What a force you are! Cyclonic, godlike,

      irresistible as lust is irresistible, and thick

      with generations of flung wreckage, blunt

      as thugs. Who, coracled in mere feeling,

      can stand against such compelling torque?

      I confess: you are a familiar ride, a drug

      of choice, a sluttish changeling, your blouse

      half-unbuttoned, eyes fierce with loathing.

      Where, in my soul’s fluid world, currents

      meet, there, turning on the slightest axis

      of an insecurity, you—siren vortex—

      draw me into your sweet, insatiable self.

      Old friend and nemesis, there, too, a Rock

      of refuge may be found. To Him I cleave.

      Be their shepherd and carry them forever.

      Psalm 28:9

      No Worries

      for my tour guide at the interview

      We take them as they come, ages twelve

      to nineteen, dress them in blue blazers, and run

      them ragged. We get away with it because

      their parents worry, and the lawns are presidential.

      If СКАЧАТЬ