Jacobnever climbed the ladderburning in his dream. Sleeppressed him like a stonein the dust,and whenhe should have risenlike a flame to jointhat choir, he was sickof traveling,and closedhis eyes to the Seraphimascending, unconsciousof the impossible distancesbetween their steps,missedthem mount the

Stream crossing, train whistle among the beech leaves rustling and a vulture swings down low over the boardwalk when the engine light barrels over the causeway and the geese lift over the dormant buds,a shimmer in the water’s mild ripple, in the liquid where the deer b

After that business with the blackbird, Kevinsore-shouldered from his mortifications—the lent-long arms reach and supplications in service of life’s mysteries and flights—lay himself out, spread-eagled in paschal light,cozy in a copse of alders, cones and catkins, and sle

I station Beckett like Gotama, mid-table, and spread before him the Sunday comics.

It is still Easter, though we are agroundthis monster’s back, tethered to its tail. This is still an island, as it rises in swells,falls in troughs, follows wanton tides. Still a mooring, a port enoughfor our feast. Our Lord is still risen. Still our hearts that burn and yielda

We kiss the person we love last thing beforethe coffin is shut       —Jack Gilbert You lean across the coffin’s gunwale to kissyour father before the rower launches into that long, last voyage to purgatory, while we, survivors, walk and drive onto stree