Something to think through
When anxiety breaks you
What would Jesus do?

A poem should be light
Like phosphorescent fingers
Touched by Saturn's rings
A poem should be musical
Teaching God to dance
Barefoot on the Andes peaks
A poem should have grace
Feeding the hearts of angels
As they clothe the bare lilies

Some poems last a century
Some poems last an hour
Yet others are satisfied
With holding no real power

I’ve done my purpose they say
No need to delay
Like a breeze that cools an infant’s head
Like a gentle kiss before bed

What remains of my poems
Is stillborn
Wrapped in senseless rhythm
Left to fend for itself
In the realm of thought

What remains of my poems
Is a pause
A seizure of the epileptic
The workmanship of
Industrious fallen angels

I taste the garden
Of Eden in your sweet lips
Hold me, your creature!
Take me into your strong arms
Softly. Never let me go!

I covered my eyes
To avoid the light of God
Abandoned all hope
As I entered with my soul
Drenched. Weighed down by guilt
As squid's ink blacken the sea
Was my vain heart when
God told me to sit with him
God told me to eat with him

The garden of Love
Is in a cemetery
Mourners come visit
With black clothes and Bibles
To sit and be still
To speak of sweet memories
There's no gardener
The flowers have become wild
Reaching the mouths of angels