The plague

Survivors of the plague, finding themselves neither destroyed nor improved, could discover no divine purpose in the pain they had suffered. ~ Barbara Tuchman

Everything falls, the old banners
Flung to pieces,
God reveals himself a jester,
Indifferent or cruel,

It makes little difference.
Popes and paupers rot
In the same slag heap,
All the rules, shattered.

Such a holy tantrum!
Such abandonment
Not seen since the days
Of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Do you pray, beseeching
God for pity,
If justice cannot be found?
Take care you don’t disturb his temper!

No pretense any longer
Of value, of one thing
Over another, your doom
Is made by a foul divine whim.


In winter, stars seem uninterested,
cold, like the wind against your face,
not white-hot, but just white
without a trace of irony,

and the moon itself,
while sympathetic,
just shrugs its way
across the frozen sky.

You dig yourself deeper
and sleep, aware
of the special cold
of a pointless dawn.

In that space

In that space between waking and sleeping
In the subtle slip, the drip
That turns the period into the comma,
In the hole in the zero
Whole worlds explode into being

The point between breathing
In and out
The curl of before and after
The warp and weft of here and now
Open the infinite wide

You say you know something
Of life and illusion
Please tell me how
Such emptiness
begets all eternity


You say you embrace God
Your arms entwine emptiness
That distorting mirror
You call God

While you pray
Waiting only for your echo
Longing only for your immortal self
To come out of hiding

The stars are exploding