SOME INSTRUCTIONS

If any there are who come after us

There is a large pile of clean days

In the cupboard near the stairs.

Some are new; the old ones will need  

To be scraped free of events and made whole

Where the mice have gotten to them. 

The Sun is stowed in the attic; you'll find matches 

Next to the fireplace. There is a moon

Wrapped in paper in the pantry and another

In the barn, tucked beneath the straw.

back when

in a beginning, god

created himself.

 (capital letters

came later.)

god had to work

with what was on hand

which was nothing.

it is quite hard

to make a thing

out of nothing

and god

shows still the signs

of his making.

fortunately cats

and dogs showed up

quite soon, both

refusing to say

where they'd been before.

CREATION IS RENEWED DAILY

Adam and Eve being unavoidably detained 

Ask and Embla, their Norse doppelgangers,

Were pressed into service. Ask was made

From an ash tree and Embla was an elm

Until Odin thought human beings 

Might liven things up. Neither of them

Liked apples. The snake argued with Embla 

For three solid hours, and left in a huff.

Michael, Uriel, Gabriel, Raphael, Beburos,

Gabuthelon, Zebuleon, Aker and Arphugitonos

Fared no better. God finally intervened

Telling Embla that all of History

Was just sitting about, waiting to happen

While being paid time and a half. Ask said

That, for his part, he'd only eat apples

If they'd been made into a nice pie.

He'd appreciate some ice cream too; 

Vanilla with little specks would do fine.

CLACK

When you throw a stone at Death

His hand flicks up and catches it

Even when he isn't looking.

If he's in a bad mood he might 

Throw it back. Usually though

He just puts it in his pockets

(You didn't think he had any? Death

Invented pockets specifically 

To have a place to put stones.)

This is why he gently rattles 

When he walks by. Those who say

It's his bones clackclackclacketing

Are just talking foolishness.

FIVE LORDS/ TEN LINES/ NO WAITING

The Lord of Bone

Dwells all alone;

The Lord of Fire

Feels no desire;

The Lord of Knives

Outlives his wives;

The Lord of Sighs

Is made of lies;

The Lord of Dreams

Is what he seems.

NOT ONE TO BRAG

One of the things I like about God is that,

Though immeasurably older than my father,

He didn't show off when the two of them got together.

There was no talk of "I just made three

Complete universes, each of them based

Upon a system of physics which denies

Even the possibility that the other two exist."

He never pointed to a stone, saying, "This stone

Is too heavy for me to lift. What will you bet

That I can lift it anyway?"

Vacation

I am off 
Late and sooning
Start at the beginning;
Work forwards;
I'll meet you
About halfway;
We'll travel,
For a while,
Together.

THE MIDDLE OF THE WEEK

Tuesday is pale green, a lady

Whose great-grandfather was a tree,

A holm oak, who, under the name

Of Citizen Quercus Ilex

Traipsed through Regency England

With Herman, Fürst von Puckler-Muskau. 

Wednesday is a pied grey man, immensely strong

And full of learning but unreliable. 

Though a distant cousin of Aesred,

Goddess of his day, he insists

He believes in no gods nor in himself.

Thursday is tall and wealthy and rust-red.

It is for her sake the Lord of Knives 

Learned to sing and the Lord of Bone

Wanders forever, houseless and silent.

CATS, DOGS, GHOSTS

One by one or in small groups, the ghosts

Of cats and dogs came in while he was dying

Sitting quietly, a truce between them.

He’d grown up in a notional world

Where cats knew their own names

But didn't share them. When there was one

It was called the cat. A second one

Was called the other cat. Some other cats

Became the cat when the cat died. Others

Preferred to remain the other; an unemployed cat

Would turn up and take on the role of the cat.

The ghost dogs flopped down anywhere.

If I'd called out the dog names I'd heard --

Lucky! Bailin! Alfhund! -- one or two

Might have approached and tried to speak

Though they knew I haven't the gift

Of speaking the language of dogs.

TRAINING

We've chosen a nation of apprentices 

(They don't know they've been chosen)

To learn our former trade. So far,

We've taught them to be landless

And despised, how to barely live,

And how to watch their children die.

In time, we'll make them wear

Some symbol -- a special hat, perhaps

Or maybe a peculiar colored patch.

Lean and bitter, they show aptitude

(We don't tell them this; it's good

For apprentices to despair).

WAITING

Darkness Visible, the great detective, sometimes

Had to leave town for weeks. His waiting room

Would  crowd with mysteries wishing to be solved

Some, growing impatient, would solve themselves

Others would fall into conversation with each other

Or go to sleep, their hungry mouths gone slack .

Some believe the conspiracy which inadvertently

Erased all memory of the week's eighth day --

So brilliantly foiled by Euphemia Penumbra --

Was launched there by two crabbed enigmas

And a four-dimensional conundrum

Who'd run out of old magazines to read.

CONSTANT

In the beginning there was a scream

Afterwards, there came someone

To make the scream. This was followed

By a cause for the scream – sturdy,

Though plainly thrown together quickly

From materials on hand. Since then,

The scream has continued, so loud

We think we can’t hear it at all.

If its volume fell lower everyone

Will start awake – even those who think

They’re awake already – crying

“What was that?”

WHY THINGS ARE THE WAY THEY ARE

At the beginning God 

Started running as fast 

As He could. The universe

Raced after Him but has not

Caught Him yet. Someday

The universe, looking at its watch

Will decide to run back home.

QUANTUM VERSE I

If you fast and pray and use

Very precise instruments you may

Calculate the position of God.

If you drink and dream and spend

Long nights staring at faded charts

You may determine the velocity of God.

You cannot know both His position

And His velocity. Nor, apparently,

Would it help to have a friend

Drinking while you fast, staring

While you calculate.

NEW

Suppose you woke up with a certificate

Clutched in your hand and signed

By the Archangel Uriel. Uriel is mean,

But not a liar; the certificate

Guarantees that you are a new version

Of someone who used to live here.

You are almost indistinguishable from him

One mole is slightly displaced; your memory

Includes the line he always forgot

In the second stanza of the national anthem.

Otherwise, you remember what he remembered

Have his scars, his reactions. His dreams

May suspect the change but will come by anyway.

What now? It might be simplest to go on

As if you were whom you seemed to be

But walking more lightly, more warily.

It would be bravest to set off to find

Your original and then help or hinder him

As the fancy strikes you. Whatever you do,

Hide the certificate; do not -- on your life! --

Ask Uriel what course he recommends.

MUSICIAN

One by one the musicians put down their instruments

And leave the stage. After an interval, the ghost

Of the flautist returns and picks up

The ghost of a flute. She starts to leave

Then returns to steal the ghosts of a small drum,

A saxophone and the conductor's baton.

NOW SERVING

During the month of no gods one god

Remains on duty. Old and infirm, he long ago

Lost his original name and has been traded

Between tribes and countries and groupings

Who never knew what they were. As part settlement

Of an interminable lawsuit, he spent 1940

Lecturing to book clubs around LaCrosse, Wisconsin.

He has split off from himself and then rejoined;

He has faced himself at the heads of armies,

And three times been also the deceitful underling.

He has wooed himself successfully and unsuccessfully.

His current resume truthfully states that he

Has created, destroyed, inspired, ressurrected, depressed,

Rebelled, woven, mystified, been the way,

The light, the path not taken, a bad example

And the last refuge of scoundrels.

He is rather deaf now but apparently nothing

Can hope to kill him so that it sticks.

QUOMODO ORARE

Your most sincere prayers should be said

While facing south. Prayers you mean

For the most part should be muttered while the sun

Is distracted by flocks of birds flying in different directions.

Prayers you offer in case it turns out you mean them 

Should be said with a faint look of derision 

While wearing the robes of a deceased ancestor.

Prayers you don't mean at all should be said

With great precision and fervor but small, tight gestures.

HEREDITY

At a family conclave before I was born

My six-times great grandfather argued strongly

That his nose would help me make my way in the world

And would be needed to mitigate the results

Of his sister Edith's squinty grey eyes

And his brother Morris' appalling sense of humor.

Some cousins suggested the rights to my nose

Be traded to the other side of my heritage --

Meeting on the other side of the room and pretending

Not to be listening -- for the ability, say,

To do lightning calculations

Or eyes able to see more colors than most.

The negotiations were complex but I have a nose

That could pass as a native anywhere south of the Bug River;

I cannot add columns of figures at a glance;

As for colors, there are several shades of blue and green

Which all look exactly the same to me.