IMAGINED CORNERS

A poem that begins with the sun

Can only dim and dim from there

Unless it finds some other light

That knows more than a trick or two.

Think how surprised the sun was

To be called busy old fool!

But there are other stars of morning

If you know which way to look.

When John Donne bid angels play

Trumpets at Earth’s imagined corners

They came. Seek for them even now

You will find them still, obedient.

BENEFITS

One of the perquisites of being a priest
Of Cardea, goddess of door hinges,
Is that she makes house calls. Spend years
Leaning to pronounce Huitzilopochtli
And sacrifice thousands of prisoners
With your Aztec flint knife until your wrist aches
And your dreams are filled with beating hearts;
The Sun will not even remember your name.
Serve Cardea and when your door squeaks
There she is, with an oilcan and a screwdriver.