June 16

Whimsymaker, should you (like Pollock) spatter the universe

on the back of a swallowtail,

would I catch your wink

across the crowd?

Would I hold both my knees

in the understated privacy of a ratty,

small town concert hall—

minding the variation

on the theme—

letting the tension before the key shift

do its work?

Or would I beat my breasts at his torn,

feathered abdomen, digging around to get

the courage to end the life of a miracle suffering?

Will I only lament, accusing the Divine

of dropping us like a broken plaything—

leaving our trauma-busted heads and broken fingers to the winding down of our dirt selves?

Yet, there is a point in this green wood

where two lone streams converge—

where all the force of a paradox

rolls downhill to

make a happy chatter—

and I remember how faith breathes.

It inhales,

and it exhales.

It inhales, and it exhales.

Peace. Be still.