In this lifetime, I have watched for God everywhere (almost):
in alleys and at the top of escalators in Beverly Hills malls,
in countless episodes of eros–eyes and arms, lips and earlobes.
And, I have searched for grace in those same, scented paths.

The young man sat with a long neck beer
In a finely carved wooden bench
And looked beside him at the young woman
Who stared upward at the pigeons gliding
Way up in the cathedral ceiling
By pictures of veterans returning

Suppose a world where men inherit mouths
in their thirty-third year.
Maybe they spring up all at once
with hunger and a tongue.

I am aware
Of my audience breathing, smell what
They ate for lunch, know
Whether their deodorant works.

I’ve been too ready to believe in
the inevitability of pain,
mine, also yours, blaming our limits
on a calculus: how one sets the rate
of change for the rest…

Was the moment of death miraculous, rapturous, all you imagined
And hoped for? And did your soul surge with joy?
And was there someone there to welcome you? I hope so.

I walk stumblingly and loud
The way that us man-apes walk
And the birds rustle in the brush –
Then ascend

It doesn’t matter how old I grow, the kings of Egypt
will never say my name. Not only the first-born succumb
to loneliness. We all live that way, aging like wine.

I feel like the dawn
over the ocean
after a storm-
filled with hope and wonder.
How did I get here?

When Patroklos died Achilles screamed
and the clouds rained down
because they thought it was thunder.