in the desert

some eight score and eleven years ago,

un américain could write on leaves of grass,

“I am large, I contain multitudes,”

there is little room nowadays for

someone to contradict one's self

where poetry goes partisan

their faux poetique words

do not so much as hurt but

bleed the heart dry of its nourishment

of unconditioned love . . .

and grace shown without a cause

where grief may convalesce

under the supple green light

of leaves on a bright cool summer’s day

spent gazing the shifting shape of clouds . . .

feeling blades of grass send tremors

of joy at all of this mysterious-ness of me

purloined by scholars and raped

by theologians out of touch with divine

in morning dew pearls on petals of a wayside flower

and the devil in our hearts speaking

in tongues to slaughter and subdue

the very meek who shall inherit

the kingdom of god

in the here and now . . .

go then, forward, build a cabin in quiet woods,

inhabit there with calm solitude

and listen to the unvoiced voice

the unstruck note beneath the troubles

that contradict and upset the seven seas

fare well, sailors, and captains of this ship

waves are not your enemies, but words,

journey forth for forty days and nights

through the desert in silence where Truth dwells

so Christ may come a Second time in you . . .