portrait of a volcano

you are the mount saint helens of men
where to begin...
fine silk hair soft as picnic grass
freckles scatter your ridges
like frightened people in the sun
your foothills prickle with coarser stuff
hip-deep, one can't help but thank God
the blast only blew out the top
you get smoother with time, the farther  you go
it's the climb that matters:
being on top is only a prelude to going down
and lava pulses beneath  your many surfaces
potent as the day you first exploded

the clouds that cross your face
accentuate the cruel beauty
of your craters and scars,
remind the world
just how dangerous you are:
a live volcano, set to blow the town
they pay no attention
until stones and ash are falling like rain
and the trembling ground
cannot absorb them fast enough
you are the mount saint helens of men
I am your mirror
and your secrets are safe with me

Angels and Scars

Onto the nebulous faces of the young

we paste our scars, one at a time

and only sometimes deliberate

to which one they belong.

The haste of angels little known,

a trademark of the ever-spinning world,

tapping at faces as we fly by

unannounced and principally unseen.

The ones we cannot leave alone

bear more than their fair share of marks,

of pain, and yet they glow--

faces bright with the caress of God.

Jealous of these, we follow--

not to save from death, but

add more scars, and hope

perhaps will learn the nature of their luck.

intangible curiosity

the desire to see the things we know
cannot be held in hand
for all the gibberish we hear
goes unsatisfied until the sense we make
dissolves in the ear

pretend, then, that it can
and be the fruitful offering we eat
think of the bruises on your thin white flesh
the ache of puncture tearing muscle
in your thoughts