And Martha said to Jesus,
‘So how long is this resurrection thing
good for?’
‘Hard to say,’ Jesus said.’

Martha poured him
another glass of wine.

‘It’s just that he won’t stop
talking about it,
how he’s your favorite,
how you don’t raise just anyone
from the dead.’

Jesus drained his glass,
reached for the bottle.

‘I might be able to get him a job
in Cyprus.’

How it is

No more winds, please,
let’s keep it on the down low
lest someone pull the chain
and down the drain we go,
merrily down the drain, life is but a word
fashioned from old shoe-strings
and faded bruises

Was that a victory or a loss?
Or am I asking the
wrong question?

The way clay fits the mold,
even if it starts out flat
and all wrong…

No, no, it’s not true
that life is just a story,
that’s just what we trick ourselves with,
to make us feel we are not
blind worms, dodging concretions
in the all-too-lumpy soil

But we are not worms
any more than worms are us

Simple. That’s it.
Simple rain falls to earth,
clouds dissapate, and we think
it’s the sun coming out,
but it’s the sun, not the clouds,
that’s been there all along,
least of all, we.