For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have
I make noises like a squeaking door
When I get up from sitting cross-legged
On the bed, where I’ve been tapping
On the laptop surface that sits in front
Of me, there
I make the noises verbally, that is—for
Now, my joints are fine
I don’t know, it’s my way to speak into
The silence and the solitude: a way to
Say, I’m here
For all the world to respond to, which,
Of course, it doesn’t
Walpurgisnacht
(30 April)
Eve of a saint’s day and
Something to do with
Witches and with German
Witches, I imagine—the
Good kind of witch, I’m
Sure
Not Charmed witches,
‘Cause they were silly
(After three seasons,
Anyway) nor the crones
With noses whose hooks
Could hold pots, so badly
Were they drawn
Maybe that’s why,
Starting at dawn, the
Television plays episodes
Of (so-called) real
Mysteries
Because tonight good
Witches are dancing in
Dark bulls’-eyed circled
Places with what light
They might extract from
The sentinel moon
Under which their sinews
Slide in pace to music
Unheard
Beseeching sky and earth
And fire with water held
In fashioned vessels
To love the world and
Give their healing magic
Potency to break feverish
Ills that make corrupting
Sickness of what men
Catch and spread when
Dealing in the day
(see?)
Psalm 3
The world is broken, Lord of
Hosts, so much so that some
Would think you’re coming soon
With heaven’s military
To smash aggression
And grind indifference into
Dust, establishing a new, just
Place that we will call
A heaven and an earth
The brokenness of our world
Leads us, unjust, toward many
Fallen things further fallen
Those who can, too much, must utter words
Of truth through iron-manacled hands
Others commit to the selling
Of souls: I mean, taking the bodies
Of others and selling them for money
Or the relief of having adversaries gone
We crush our spirits with
What we let go by
Lord, what might lift us, free us
Make us fit for home? Please make me
Readier to act, commit the risk for good
clcouch123 
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