for everything which is yes

Holy Spirit, speak–
my morning shower’s sweet sting.
I am naked here.

Too self-conscious to
conflate, the critic sits back
while the rest Romance.

The mist this morning
lay as though it lacked the will
to rise. Sun be damned.

His olive-oil voice
underwhelmed, but his surfeit
of soul kept them rapt.

Few images are
as dignified as that of
the hawk’s silhouette.

A heart that’s not crushed
hardens up. Given time, it
becomes else: crusted.

Lord, make my heart as
soft as a sunrise and wide
as the horizon.