The Best Thing To Do

To lift each piece
of mismatched furniture
to sweep beneath

is a risk

to find faith
in the ability to face
the ache and relief

and horror and
acceptance of a mystery
tragically solved.

Fragmented

Sappho’s poems. Nick Drake’s last
songs. Tiger reserves. My memories, his,
that pier over bay
water. A hearse afloat. The underside
of a bridge. One car
on a train crossing
this river. The moon
most nights. Your love.
My faith. The sky itself.

December 24 (Day 2,593)

Half page ads peddle faith
in 45-minute segments
by the hour on two campuses.
And a website to worship. A faltered blizzard 

reminds her of her own faith—how
it works better
without a forecast, without
a Twitter account. Not 

a without—a within.

Walden Ripple Effect

Until she loses herself
to light in truncation,
to upside down black and 

white photos of bridges—
some smiles do turn
down—till then, she will not 

find herself 

having faith in those infinite
relations and figure eights
swooning over sidewalks.