Friday, March 18, 2022


Crucifying on Tarot's Celtic cross,
the Devil tells me, "Scorpio, you've stung
your head with winged visions from the eyelids
of the dead." A kaleidoscope flutters

terror through me: a blood sun sets on this
evil Calvary, where no mourners wail,
and stock-still leaves on dormant trees hiss,
"Eli, Eli lama sabachthani."

The earth is sound. No veil is torn. The saints
sleep soundly; their graves unborn. I wake
to waking, and wish my waking done. Sleep
escapes me, and I wish my visions done.

Tuesday, March 1, 2022

Michael Weeks

We were sixteen when you died.
When I was seventeen, Stacey Brice 
handed me a paper doll skeleton
that you had cut and buried within 
your Geometry book. Now I’m forty one,
and those paper bones are in this poem, 
atop my shelf, and older than you ever were.