ALLEGORY OF THE PELICAN

For as that Pelican yonder,
alighting on the Rosemary branch,
on the Rosemary bower,

gazes at the Sun descending,
eventide and day's ending,
light upon the Dead One falling

through the fissures of the shutter,
the sun's last ray across his face,
he awaits — the Resurrection.

And the Pelican bides its time,
when the Sun has already declined,
reckons the number of branches,

the branches of the Rosemary bush,
like the light of Faith itself,
murderous, it blinds:

"I ask of you, my Pilgrim Soul,
You, my Body, passed from this world,
in this grant me your accord.

The Pelican alights on the Rosemary's
bough, and its branches sway;
our wings at rest remain.

Christ counts the blows, five thousand
four hundred and two score, when
offense is given to Him,

and, within his Crown of Thorns,
thorns of seventy-two branches,
how great would be the torment,

were the Dead One to arise,
and walk here, like the Pelican,
its Allegory revived."


FINAL MATTERS: DEATH

There was nothing more than there should have been,
the common residue of the last few days,
gathered by the breeze into the courtyard nooks,
until Fanny the charwoman swept them away

and into the ground-floor flat called
"Good morning!" and "What's for lunch today?"
The sun shone down. Doves alighted on the eaves
and pockmarks on the cement were seen

each one by itself, for eternity. It was Spring.
The shutters were folded, the shades drawn.
The window opened just a crack, which was strange,
but maybe not so much. And then everyone

was seeking the cause of the peculiar smell. Evening
came, and morning again. The third day. No one
thought of the elderly couple in the ground-floor flat.
The detectives were bored. Nothing affects them

anymore. They were drunk when they got there and
guzzled even more at the drink-stand next door. The corpses
were buried quickly, because it was Easter. The case
was closed. And no one played the Dies irae.


AETERNITAS

(1)

The Eternal is
cold, like the chisel
used to carve
the face of our Jesus.

The Eternal is submerged,
like the pebble,
as you gaze at the river and see
the water again tranquil.

The Eternal leaps
away, like the flea
you clutch at in vain —
already the inferno.

The Eternal is profound,
like that awareness
in which resides
the mercy of our Christ.

The Eternal ticks
on, like the clock,
though maybe it misses
— at times — the dawn.

The Eternal is thin
as the blade of the knife
which Death then slips
into your heart.

The Eternal is,
like life itself, fleeting —
it comes to an end
while you're speaking.


ROSARY FOR THE NYMPHS

There is something in the soul. Perhaps a yearning for greatness
which never leaves one in peace. From memory, the time

of waiting falls away. Only circumstances remain,
the opened palm, the mouth askew, the cold

touch on the forehead. The eyelids bound
to the tear ducts with three or four stitches. Both

already closed, only a scalpel could open them
now. The umbilical cord, gnawed through with the teeth. The face

bloodied. The nymphs heard the grinding
of teeth. In the realms of poetry, all errant forms

followed the trace. The spilt milk left a stain
on the stone floor by the fridge. The shades thirstily

gathered round. For the entire day, they listened in silence.
Waiting by the edge of the opened eye. The flock of sheep

drifted down the white stony hillside. Like a grandmother's
hair at night, falling from its knot. Or like

teeth, which are whiter and more rigid
than bone. Like specters, jostling around the mouth.


THE SEQUENCE OF EMPTINESS

Ghastly the void at the page's edge,
where the sentence comes to an end
and floats across

to the next page, turning over
the leaves, yet nothing contains
within itself

the world, which, should you not
pay heed, is lost, for the Soul no longer
there resides,

only Malediction, as it watches
you in the Mirror, the pupil of its eye
observing

by the pages' end, where the void may arise,
the sentence penned may not remain
unfulfilled,

for that which is written must come to be,
He who is Sacred must appear:
Marana tha!

May grace upon us descend,
and may this world now reach its end!
Amen!


SEQUENCES OF CHRISTMAS

(1)

On Golgotha, by the crucifix,
our eyes are trained on sweet Jesus

who when he came into this world
for all our sakes was murdered

tiny being from his mother's womb
cast out upon this world

a naked life came all alone
and with it came a tiny soul

the infant has no swaddling clothes
only his father's watchful gaze

his tiny hand laid on the cross
and held in place with nails because

for all time now he must die
for our sakes he lies in agony

there the infant's tiny corpse
hovering above its soul there floats

on that night in Bethlehem
Pontius Pilate weeps alone

sees the one in the manger laid
the nails driven into his hands

the wide gash on his right side
crowned with thorns is the infant head

the manger's straw is slick with blood
tiny tiny Jesus brother

with his hands so very small
plays with the wounds in his tiny palms

turns them round, peering through:
the infant's face, dead, smiling.


FINAL MATTERS: HELL

He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Him —
for years now. He said: I try to forget
in vain. That day was like any
other, like a confining husk —

he repeated this daily. And he couldn't
even die, that too was no use. He looked at the wall.
In his eyes there was no longer any light.
Only a few irrelevant thoughts flitted across

his brain. A hesitant smile. "Where am I? —"
he asked, but expected no answer.
As with all the other questions, he hardly
believed there could be answers. He perceived

that for the one who has fallen
there is no longer any reason to ascend. "Maybe
in another life ..." he said at times. In vain. "... For I
live here among assassins, which is how I betray Him."


AETERNITAS

(2)

The Eternal is what
I'd rather forget:
Like life itself,
unyielding, without end.

A man approaches from the south
bearing a cross upon his back,
people gather round and ask,
"Where did you find...