ADVISORY

Walk carefully; there are saints about
Sleeping in doorways or throwing dice
Against an alley wall. The bartender --
Surely her reflection has a halo?
Her shadow's almost right but shifts
Just a second or two before the light.
The glass from which you do not drink
Has bitter drops of redemption in it.

COLD

Yellow smoke from a cedarwood fire
Hangs over the men who stand
Under the stars, telling each other
They have known colder nights.

CONTINUING

The story about Brigid everyone knows
Is of her hanging a cloak on a sunbeam.
Seldom is it remembered she could weave
With cold moonlight. Sometimes in her wrath
She would move three long fingers just so,
And a star guttered in its socket and died.
Before she was a saint she was the goddess
Of standing water. Her shift at the bar ends;
The ice in the machine tries to follow her out.

THE DONNE TRIPTYCH

The central panel has become crowded;
Mary, heavily dressed, has a naked Jesus
Sitting on her lap. Two angels have come by;
One to offer Jesus a pear the other
To quietly strum background music
On a sort of tall and boxy guitar.
Sir John Donne's there, and Lady Donne
And their daughter, all managing to look
Very pious and slightly bored, as if
Hanging out with God and His Mother
Is something they do every day.
St. Barbara, who is lugging a heavy tower,
Envies St. Catherine, who has her sword
Belted to her slender waist. Memling,
The artist, has also given Catherine
A hat much prettier than Barbara's.
Over to the left, Memling peers in
Shyly from behind a pillar.

MEMO

Buds? Tree, this is
Foolish optimism.
Spring is at least
Four years away.

CREATION

I remember when you determined

To create another person. Unfortunately,

She had already been created so you

Had to shoulder God aside, which proved

To require time and resources

You’d allocated for other things. Then,

She didn’t fancy being your creation

It turned out she’d been all along

Slyly altering you in various ways

And then changing her mind or yours --

You’d go to sleep on the hard ground

Of your monastic cell only to wake up

Your tonsure gone, and with a soul patch

A hangover, tenure at a community college

And several quarrelsome cats. For now,

Both of you are living as best you can.

On the run from crimes you’re fairly sure

You didn’t commit. For now, both of you

Are welcome to hide here but I expect

Tomorrow morning will find you gone.

THE VISION OF ST. JEROME

Parmagiano's painting is called
The Vision of St. Jerome
But it is no such thing.
Take a look at it; (you'll find it
In The National Gallery or
On page 99 of the anthology
Of their hundred best paintings.)
That isn't Jerome at lower right
But just a very old, very tired man
Sleeping quite dreamlessly.
He's plainly crept into the  picture
To get some quiet. St. John the Baptist,
A corkscrew of indignation,
Demands the intruder be expelled
"He's not even painted to scale
His color's off, and there is something
Wrong about his foreshortening!"
"Oh, let the poor man sleep," says Mary.
"If it is Jerome," Baby Jesus asks,
"Do you think he'll let Me pet his lion?"