Agamemnon Has Aids
I met a man who wore
The death mask of Agamemnon
And he told me "That death
Like every other moment of your life
Is something that happens to you
I came in contact with the body fluids
Of Iphigenia without surgical mask
Or gloves and I had unprotected sex
With Achilles and made love to
Clytemnestra without a condom"
And all of Mycenae whispers
Every woman’s husband
And every man’s wife
In irony fitting Greek drama
The hero home from Ilium
To bedsores, lesions and conspicuous
Consumption ravaged now and stricken
With the strictly modern malady
That’s turned him suddenly old
Like King Priam and just as sad
3/23/98
.
Benedictus
This morning the lake is calm
It’s surface the color of cut
And polished jade
And I note the sunrise that
Shines opalescence on still
Sleeping waters
In a moment so quiet that
If God stirred you would
See His movements
And if he spoke His voice
Would be ripples across
The stillness
3/14/98
.
Lake Michigan
Lake Michigan is milky green marble
With veins of whitecaps foaming
From shore to distant sky
Water rising and falling and rolling
Is alive with waves and boils
In constant motion
The horizon is a band of deep blue
That separates the pale green water
From the soft blue hues of sky
In a lakescape speechless
Like a movie without sound
That plays muted movements
The gulls fly without call
And the wind is a mere whisper
Of film winding through a projector
As waves explode quietly white
On the breakwater that is the
Curved gray line that marks the shore
Like the silent soliloquy of a mute
Speaking the sign language of the deaf
Motion alone carries meaning
4/3/98
.
Movements
In the cog wheels
And springs of spirit
There are workings
Too small and quick
To see
The mechanization of
Mustard seeds silent
Motion are dynamos that
Drive the Kingdom
Of God
Mechanisms too fine
To discern are the
Movements of the soul
Levers and gears
So Miniscule
Their purpose cannot
Be divined but
Remain puzzling and
Mysterious as the
Will of God
2/1/98
.
Sanctus
At night downtown buildings
Are lit like racks of votive candles
In a dark church
Some are white beeswax
Some are golden flame rising
To subdued weakness
Strobed finials glow dull orange
Like light through smoke gray glass
Of vacuum tubes
In mist that cloaks high peaks
And hides monolithic shapes with sky
Sunken to street level
3/14/98
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