by MERKAT
I have less to say
and too many words
with which to say it.
I gave up church
but the phoebes continue
their call and response
across the cathedral
of conifer.
What else could you ask for?
My old friend asked me
fingerless gloves and a cigarette
between his clean teeth
outside my small apartment.
I said nothing
but if I had said something
I would have said nothing
because the birds in the branches
the trees themselves, even,
the purple brambles, the crown of thorns
bracken, the wild magenta roses
and fat pink nightcrawlers,
the rapturous smell of wet earth,
steaming in the early morning sun
as I bend to remove my torn old shoes
there is nothing left to say here
in the company
of every holy thing.
