Social movements need great art.

In dark matter,the hot bolt of deer— brambled rack,coiled haunch,stone spoor. A great stagbridledbarely, its riderlongthrown. This traceof breakingfrom wild, hintof bit.

Spring is his burden, and the night, a robe: lividas poppies in a roadside wrap, facing the dying weather.Spring is the furrow on his shoulder swathe,between the neck and forearm. Thus was the intimation right: a savior comesout of Jerusalem, with pericardial threadto make a heart’s claim

…moved over the face of the waters. And in reading this,the awareness that, more than once,God has turned my head in his direction,yet I haven’t seen the gesture for what it is. The world charges and is charged with a white-hot flame.I might turn away, but each morning my head is t

One need not believe that ours are the worst of times to believe they are pretty bad—nonetheless it is a time for poetry.

This morning, I hauled to the streetA heavy wooden pallet, so beatThe workmen had left it behind:Its boards, rough-hewn and splinteringAgainst the asphalt. When I leanedIt on the dumpster, with some twineAnd flattened cardboard boxes, too,For the trash-man, a March gust blewAnd overturned what I had