supplicant, leg crooked and
bandaged foot, the rotund
cleric who drops a coin

in an open palm, the
calm virgin, and the child
on her lap, reaching out

to the world – the solid
flesh, round limbs and faces,
peaceful eyes. What burdens

there are – the crucified
God, somehow in repose,
or the crippled beggar

balanced on his crutch – are
made beautiful, an all-
too-human transgression,

a strange kindness, so that
the torment of the sick,
of the tortured martyrs,

their headless bodies that
once were bathed in pain, and

are now covered with the
light of grace, are simply

a matter of course, bright
red spatters of blood an

inevitable turn
of events, like the folds
of the red and green robes

of witnesses and of
victims alike. Rilke

must have been thinking of
him when he asked, whom can
we ever turn to in

our need – the light, at last,
a mystery to the
lost and to the redeemed.

away — nothing
is ever what

it is supposed
to be, illness

as metaphor.
As if without

fanfare, slowly,
in increments,

we lose the ones
we love. And we

lose ourselves. Death,
with the softest

of hellos, an
old friend we have

never met, drops
by one day for

a coffee and
conversation.

The body, the
body fails, at

last disappears
— yet we keep on

talking. A light
streams across the

table, its cups,
saucers and spoons,

these the remains
of a good life.

the pond’s dark surface. We
make our way over his

wooden bridge and then pass
the shrubs and flowers he
planted, arranged just so

to paint. How carefully
the pigment would be placed,

how gradually the world —
its daily businesses —
would become still and deep.