poem
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A MeatballI fold my napkin gingerly, like it’s afraid of my touch.There are so many sounds in the wall it’s like a quiet river.The cold outside makes our warmth more fragile, and that’s just as well.Scarcity creates value, I suppose.The thing is, my thoughts are broadcast commentary,since there is no other way. Of course,the Grand…
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And What of All This Swirling?And what of all this swirling?To see life always in reflectionOn the eye to which I hold myselfAnd when until its stopping?Can I hold for longer stillWith all I know awash?And essence—what to knowAnd what to let slip through—When will it matter?Time—to hold and time forAll. But what—and more,For whom?…
The Trinitarian Mystery 