two poems...

Fortunate Fall 

It seems a memory, not fit to amuse
     us, when we need a means to slip away
     into a dream of all the good we may
or may not dare. For we yet hate to lose,
shambling and resentful of the news
     that loss is woven into every play
     we make. The sun yet burns us, as we weigh
the odds that love’s an everlasting ruse.

It's like a dream, this memory undone.
     The hour's not as early as I thought,
     yet I bear the remnant of our love
for a garden City lost, then won -
     a fugitive law presses from above
     that all as one might be more dearly bought.

Proper Foolishness

So we’re yet waiting in a silent hour,
     penned down with our brand of vanity
     into a little space, where we can see
only a hint of sky beyond the power
of hidden men. The promise of the flower
     is enough for now. We can only be.
     It’s true, God never posts a probate fee,
but he just might make a strong man cower.

Listen to the echo now of every fall
     of every one alive, the weal and woe
     of time that is itself the final call
to flee our place of self-made famine, low
     enough that God himself learned how to crawl -
     it’s his delight to charm us from below.