Wednesday, March 15, 2017



A chorus of genuflections filtered through the kitchen
ventilator and knelt beside my bed around midnight.
I knew Georgina was dead. My rocking chair peeled
its mahogany finish in her honor.

There were loud knocks at the door. Neighbors  
packing axioms, guns, crucifixes, shovels.
“Hi, we were wondering about the odor?”

It’s not coming from here, I’m not dead yet.
Occasionally, I see apparitions of myself
standing by the window, behind the shower curtain,
but I still go fly fishing.

Mother came to me in a dream last night, gave me the password
to a house where boas reincarnate into possessed lizards
catching mosquitoes on maracas. She said, everything spoken
becomes water, blends.

I am going to stop talking for seven years,
but first let me repeat this a few more

Harmonizing the sacred          Harmonizing the sacred
            Harmonizing the sacred


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