What would a Savior make of our half-thoughts?

He is busy with the skirt of rain,

the bric-a-brac lands birds flee from,

the zoning sun. Before redeeming any more

of the landscape, He would know its true color,

and who sees it. Savior? Means taste.

Surely He would know

we have capitulated

in every way.

Even the best blood

pools in beds

under an equator of slaughter.

God makes only geniuses,

but our idiom grows crooked, its marrow

a broken skeleton's. Yet

till the air becomes air again,

there is always something that can be learned,

even in the awful grates of death.

If the salt

hath lost its savour

wherewith

shall it be salted?

Where is the so-called fat of the land?

The thick branches respond

to rain

in jeweled form.

Hence, leaves.

Hence, bees keen on the blossom,

blackbirds drawn from the life.

Round May

the land gorges,

while the crow is always starved.

Earth totters,

lifts up its horn to the heavens,

while its inhabitants grow yet

rich and poor together

and speak with insolent neck.