Thursday, March 14, 2013

What the Pope Dreams First Night on the Job



Sleep does not come
naturally.  There are
inconsistencies in the air
around the bed.
before the fall
into the thick
breathing of beasts
he rests on stone
and loaves indistinguishable
from one another.

The bed is above a city.
He is told: hurl
yourself down.

 He sees his picture
on the walls of
working-class homes,
next to the portrait
of JFK.
When he speaks
it is the echo
of empty rise bowls:
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani.

He breathes in the ocean.
His hands cannot exist
in a medium so thick
and heavy with the moon,
they become something green:
water feathers he uses
with second sight.

Towards daybreak
the wise fish settles.
Above him is the bottom
of a vessel, a drop of nets.

The fisherman’s boat
is slow wood
and the crisp water,
sun below sun.

                                    Poetry Northwest

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