his Jesus stole from us the face of God.
We saw only the back he had turned to us
as if no love had rolled away the stone.

The forecast calls for heavy snow again.
The graveyard shift over at Lover’s Leap,
Kill and Evisceration, need not come in.

Somebody is always expecting you home.
Somebody’s saying you’ve been gone too long
and stayed too late, and no good can come of it.

Whatever I hoped to believe,
I never imagined
the pitfall of consolation:

All day, the colorless heat
of too much summer:
parcels of darkness

It feels like a door in the light
through which the mind might pass at any moment,

My eldest son rolls over in his sleep
and, like an actor mid-soliloquy,
he murmurs, “Nothing—”

He is waiting for the story to begin:
a road through the meadows, a ship’s light, all those
signals in the grass he has to learn

The mice are back;
                             I leave them
crusts and pine nuts

Your eyes show peace, discord
is foreign to your lips;
most necessary motion